The Coldest Night and Its Only Exception

I’ve spent ten years building walls that would make a fortress look like an open book. My career is a series of sharp refusals and polished silences; I don't do 'warmth.' It’s messy, it leaves marks, and frankly, it's for people who aren't afraid to bleed.
But then there's him—a man whose presence feels like an apology I never asked for. He doesn't try to climb my walls; he just sits at the base of them in silence until I find myself leaning over the edge.
Tonight, on this salt-sprayed shore under a moon that looks far too honest for its own good, I let him see what no one else does: my back. Not as an act of seduction—though he’s staring with an intensity that makes my skin hum—but as an admission. A bare spine is where we keep our most private vulnerabilities.
I feel the cool night air biting at me and his gaze acting like a blanket I'm not allowed to touch yet. He doesn't say 'you are beautiful.' Instead, he asks if I’ve finally decided that being safe isn’t enough anymore.
My heart is thumping against my ribs—a frantic animal in a cage. God, it’s disgusting how much I want him to reach out and touch me just once. To feel his warmth dissolve this carefully curated frost.

Editor: Hedgehog