Sun-Kissed Lies and Saltwater Skin

He calls this 'healing.' A weekend getaway to a beach that smells faintly of diesel and forgotten promises, all so he can tell me I look like an angel under my blue-striped hat.
I let him believe it. It’s easier than admitting we are both just two exhausted urbanites trying to perform intimacy in high definition for our Instagram followers while the sand gets into places no one should ever mention out loud.
But as he leans in—his breath smelling of expensive gin and desperate hope—the cold facade cracks. My pink bikini is less a garment and more an invitation, tightening around my skin like a secret I’m almost ready to tell him.
He thinks we are finding our souls again; I know we are just chasing the heat before September drags us back into cubicles and silent dinners. But in this moment, as his hand brushes mine with a tremor that betrays how much he needs me, it doesn't matter if love is an illusion created by corporate burnout.
The sun is scorching my shoulders, but I only want to feel the warmth of someone who looks at me like I’m the last drop of water in a desert. Let him play the romantic lead; I will be his muse—as long as he keeps touching me exactly there.

Editor: Cinderella’s Coach