Salt Water and Diesel Dreams

I’m standing here on a deck that smells like old oil and salt, wearing red lace that cost more than my first car but feels cheaper than the way he looks at me. Leo is an ordinary man—grease under his fingernails, hands calloused from fixing engines in a city that never stops screaming. He doesn't say much; he just listens with his heart while I unravel all the noise of downtown Manhattan into the night air.
He’s currently below deck, probably cursing at a stubborn bolt on this vintage boat we called 'The Sanctuary.' When he finally climbs up and sees me—goggles pushed back like some retro dream, skin glowing under moonlight—he doesn't compliment my dress or my hair. He just says, 'You look like home,' in that gravelly voice of his.
I’ve spent years being a polished diamond for people who only care about the shine. But with Leo, I get to be raw. The way he touches my waist is careful, as if I'm something precious yet fragile, while his own skin smells like diesel and devotion. In this city of steel ghosts, we are two blood-warm souls clinging to a floating piece of wood.
He pulls me close, the heat radiating off him in waves that drown out the cold ocean breeze. There is no fancy music here—just the rhythmic thrum of the engine and our synchronized breathing. I lean back against his chest, closing my eyes, knowing that for tonight at least, we aren't just surviving; we are living.

Editor: Street-side Poet