Saccharine Flesh & Cold Steel Hearts

I’ve spent three years building a career that makes people tremble when I walk into the boardroom. My life is all sharp edges, espresso shots at 5 AM, and zero room for sentimentality. Then comes Elias—a man who thinks poetry still matters in an age of algorithms.
He didn't try to 'save' me or play some chivalrous game; he just brought a chilled watermelon and the silence of his backyard deck when my world felt too loud to breathe. I’m lying here now, skin humming against cool fabric, watching him slice into that fruit with surgical precision while we say absolutely nothing.
Most women would call this 'healing.' They'd talk about fate or soulmates. Not me. I don’t do destiny; I do desire. This isn't some fairy tale where he rescues my heart—it’s a conscious choice to let him in because his presence is the only thing that tastes better than success.
I look at the red flesh of the watermelon, dripping with sweet juice, and think about how easy it is for people to lose themselves in love. I refuse to be 'love brained,' drifting aimlessly in emotion. Instead, I’m staying grounded right here on these wooden planks.
He leans over me, scenting like cedarwood and summer rain, his fingers grazing my shoulder just enough to make the air electric. The warmth is real, but so is my autonomy. If this is romance, it's one where we both keep our wits—and I’m perfectly happy being seduced by a man who knows exactly when to be quiet.

Editor: Ginny on the Rocks