120 BPM at Your Doorstep

He pushes the door open and my pulse detonates at 120 BPM, a red siren I cannot mute.
I lift both hands into peace signs, fingers grazing the air beside my temples, pretending to play. But my skin is flooding with heat, capillaries dilating under the sheer curtain light, every nerve ending screaming his name before my mouth does. The black straps bite gently at my shoulders while my breath hitches, shallow and electric.
He has been a ghost for three weeks, buried in spreadsheets and cold coffee, his love language eroded by deadlines. I am not here to demand; I am here to heal the silence between us with a single smile and two raised fingers.
His eyes lock onto mine and time stutters. I feel the exact moment he forgets the world outside this window. My heart hammers a fast, frantic rhythm against my ribs, and I know it is not just excitement. It is surrender, warm and slow-burning, the kind that settles into bone after long winters of being alone.

Editor: Heartbeat Monitor