Salt Water and Silent Promises

I’ve spent five years building walls higher than the skyscrapers of Seoul, convinced that intimacy was just a slower way to get hurt. My heart is an archive of carefully curated disappointments, filed under 'Do Not Touch'.
Then came him—a man who speaks in silences and reads between my jagged lines. He didn't try to dismantle my defenses; he simply sat outside them until I got tired of being alone.
We flew here on a whim—an escape from the gray concrete that suffocates us both. As I step into the turquoise crash of the tide, wearing this yellow bikini like an act of defiance against my own reserve, I feel his gaze on me. It’s not just desire; it's recognition.
He walks toward me through the surf, dripping wet and smiling with a softness that makes my chest ache. He takes my hand—the one I usually use to push people away—and pulls me closer until our skin is slick with salt water and heat.
'You’re shivering,' he whispers against my temple, though it's eighty degrees out.
I lean into him, letting the ocean drown out everything but his heartbeat. For once, I don’t mind being vulnerable; because in this moment, beneath a wide blue sky, let me be soft just for you.

Editor: Hedgehog