The Fog Between Your Skin and Mine

I’m sitting here in the gray, my bare feet touching the cold wood of a bench that feels like it belongs to another century. The city is breathing around me—a muted roar filtered through this thick, suffocating fog—but all I can hear is the echo of your footsteps on damp earth.
My oversized sweater smells faintly of you and expensive espresso; it’s too big for my frame, wrapping me in a cocoon that keeps out the chill but leaves my heart dangerously exposed. I pulled my knees tight to my chest because being alone in this mist makes me feel fragile, like glass ready to crack under the weight of everything we haven't said.
Then you arrive. You don’t speak; you just slide next to me and drape your arm across my shoulders with a possessiveness that sends shivers down my spine—not from cold, but from hunger. Your hand is warm against my neck, fingers grazing the hairline where I’m most sensitive.
In this blur of white and gray, we are the only sharp edges left in existence. You lean in, your breath a hot current against my ear, whispering that you've found me at last. The urban chase ends here—no more texting through midnight hours or longing glances across crowded bars. Just us, skin on skin, healing each other with silence and heat while the rest of the world disappears into the mist.

Editor: Desire Line