Satin Over Scars: The City That Breathes Warmth

The engine is dead, but the city still roars through the glass. I pull my knees to my chest in this ridiculous pink satin—frills and all, like a dress designed to mock me—and wait for the world to stop being so brutally loud. My heels cut into my ankles; I let them. Pain keeps me honest.
He sits across from me in the driver's seat, not touching, just existing. That is his cruelty and his mercy. He never asks what broke today. He only slides a cup of osmanthus tea into my hand, steam curling like a question I refuse to answer. 'You're overthinking again,' he says, voice flat as a scalpel.
I snap back: 'Maybe the world deserves being dissected.' But then his thumb brushes the rim of the cup, and something in my sternum cracks open—warm, stupid, unbearable. The pink fabric against my skin suddenly feels less like armor and more like a secret. I lean back, arms raised behind my head, letting him see me unguarded for exactly three seconds before I look away.
Outside, neon bleeds across the windshield. Inside, we breathe the same quiet air. That is enough. That has to be enough.

Editor: Hedgehog