Blue Ice and Calloused Hands

He smells like diesel fuel, cheap tobacco, and a kind of honesty you only find in men who fix things with their bare hands. Leo doesn't do fancy; he does 'enough'. He’s the guy who spends ten hours under an old chassis just to make sure my beat-up sedan won't die on me mid-highway.
Today, he walked into my studio wearing a grease-stained t-shirt that hugged his shoulders in all the right places. In one hand, he held this drink—a neon blue concoction with a tiny umbrella and too many ice cubes for July heat. He didn't say much; Leo never does. He just set it down on my desk and whispered, 'You looked like you were drowning in deadlines.'
I took the first sip through that plastic straw while he watched me with eyes as steady as an anchor. There’s something raw about how he loves—no poetry books or violin solos, just a cold drink and a silent promise to be there when everything falls apart.
As I leaned back in my chair, feeling the chill of the blue liquid hit my throat, I caught him staring at my lips with a hunger that felt like home. He didn't move closer yet, but the air between us was thick enough to touch. In this concrete jungle where everyone is selling their soul for a promotion, Leo is my only real thing—rough around the edges, calloused fingers, and a heart that beats in time with mine.

Editor: Street-side Poet