The Greenhouse Where Time Forgot to Rush

I have always felt like a fragment of an old poem lost in the steel rhythm of this city. The skyscrapers breathe exhaust, and people move with their eyes fixed on screens that never sleep.
But here, beneath the glass ribs of my secret garden sanctuary, time does not tick; it exhales. I wore the mint-green tulle dress today—the one that feels like wearing a morning mist around my ankles. As I reached for a leaf that seemed to be whispering secrets in its veins, I felt his gaze before I heard his footsteps.
Julian had arrived early from the financial district, still smelling of cold espresso and rain on asphalt. He didn't speak at first; he simply stood by the ferns and watched me dissolve into the greenery. When he finally stepped closer, the air between us shimmered with an unspoken promise—a quiet electricity that made my skin tingle under the thin straps of my gown.
He touched a strand of my hair, his fingers calloused but gentle, as if I were a rare orchid and one wrong move might shatter me. 'You look like you've stepped out of another century,' he whispered against my temple.
In that moment, the city outside ceased to exist. There was only the scent of damp earth, the soft friction of his palm on my waist, and a slow-burning warmth spreading through my chest—a healing kind of love that didn’t demand answers but offered space for us both to breathe.

Editor: Cloud Collector