Neon Skin and Midnight Warmth

The city is a loud, hungry beast that never sleeps, but tonight I’m just standing here in my skin—half-naked and shivering under the cold blue glare of an advertisement for some girl who doesn't exist. My heels are killing me, and the wind smells like rain and exhaust fumes.
Then comes Leo. He isn't a prince; he's got grease beneath his fingernails from working on old bikes all day and eyes that look like they’ve seen every broken thing in this neighborhood. He doesn't say much—just walks up, shrugs off his oversized denim jacket, and drapes it over my shoulders without asking.
The fabric is rough, smelling of tobacco and cedarwood, but it holds a heat that feels more honest than any spotlight I’ve ever stood under. My skin prickles where the heavy wool meets the bare curve of my back. He doesn't look at me like I’m an image or a product; he looks at me like I’m someone who needs to go home.
I lean into him, feeling the hard line of his shoulder against mine. In this concrete jungle where everything is polished and fake, we are just two raw nerves touching in the dark. He whispers something about cheap ramen and warm tea, and suddenly, the neon lights don't feel so cold anymore.

Editor: Street-side Poet