The Heat Beneath My Fingertips

The city air is always too cold, a sterile wind that tastes of wet concrete and distant exhaust. But here, by the hidden creek at the edge of our neighborhood, I can still feel your warmth clinging to my skin like an invisible silk shawl.
I remember how you looked tonight—your fingers grazing the small of my back as we walked through the rain-slicked streets, a touch so light it barely registered yet sent shivers racing down my spine. Now, alone in this sanctuary, I kneel by the water and press my palms against the stone surface.
I close my eyes to better smell you: sandalwood mixed with crisp morning air and that faint metallic scent of your wrist watch
As I channel a soft glow from beneath me, it isn’t just magic; it is memory made physical. The warmth blooms in the center of my chest—a slow-burning ember that mirrors how my heart beats faster when you whisper my name against the shell of my ear.
I can almost feel your breath on my neck, hot and uneven, as if we are still standing too close to be strangers but not quite touching. I let a single drop of golden light ripple outward into the stream, imagining it is an invitation—a silent pulse sent through the city’s veins to draw you back to me.
My skin hums with anticipation, every pore open and waiting for the weight of your hand on my hip, pulling me flush against you until I can feel your heartbeat echoing mine.

Editor: Pulse