Cold Glass and Warm Skin

The city outside is a jagged mess of neon and noise, but here in the kitchen at 3 AM, it’s just us. I stepped out from under your oversized grey cardigan—the one that smells like old books and cheap coffee—and let my skin breathe against the sudden chill.
I stood before the open fridge, bathed in a sterile white glow that felt honest for once. My fingers grazed the cold glass of some overpriced juice bottle while I waited for you to wake up from your nap on the sofa. You’d spent twelve hours fixing pipes under city streets today; your hands are calloused and rough, but when they touch my waist, it's like being wrapped in velvet.
I could hear your breathing change behind me—a shift in rhythm that told me you were awake. I didn't turn around. I just leaned into the cold air, wearing nothing but this blue bikini and a sliver of hope that tomorrow would be softer than today.
Then came those hands: rough palms meeting my smooth hip, pulling me back against your chest with an urgency that was both desperate and gentle. You didn't say anything; you just kissed the curve where my neck meets shoulder, tasting like sleep and devotion.
In this concrete jungle, we’re just two ordinary souls trying not to rust. But in these quiet hours under fluorescent light, wrapped in wool and desire, I know I am finally home.

Editor: Street-side Poet