The Fragile Gravity of White Daisies

I can feel your gaze before I even look up—that heavy, expectant warmth that makes the air between us thicken like syrup. You're standing just at the edge of this white field, pretending to admire the landscape, but we both know you're tracing the line where my skin meets the lace of this bikini.
I don't move. I stay reclined in the grass, letting a few stray petals cling to my shoulder, playing a dangerous game of stillness. It's an invitation dressed as indifference. In the city, we were all deadlines and polite emails; here, under this blinding sun, every second you hesitate is a victory for me.
I shift slightly, just enough to let the sunlight catch the curve of my hip, watching your breath hitch from across the distance. I want you to wonder if I'm waiting for you or if I've already forgotten you were there. The tension is an electric wire stretched tight between us, humming with everything we haven't said.
I finally look up and give you that slow, knowing smile—the kind that tells you the distance is only as far as your courage allows
Come closer, I think, though my lips never move. Let's see who breaks first.

Editor: Danger Zone