Golden Hour Reverie

The salt spray tasted of longing on my lips, a phantom echo of touch. This dress, too fragile for the wind that dared to lift its hem, was his choice – an offering of something soft against the harshness I usually wore.
He hadn’t spoken much since we arrived at this desolate stretch of beach, just watched as the sun bled into the ocean, mirroring the slow burn within him. He doesn't need words when he looks at me like that—a silent claim, a primal recognition.
I used to fear these quiet moments, these spaces where vulnerability clawed at the edges of my carefully constructed walls. But his gaze is a strange alchemy; it strips away the armor, leaving only skin and bone exposed.
Tonight, there’s a warmth that isn't just from the dying light. It lingers in the space between us, heavy with unspoken needs, and for once, I don’t pull away. The tide rises, cold against my feet, but his hand finding mine is fire.

Editor: Leather & Lace