The High Cost of Sun and Skin

I’m told this is a healing retreat. I stand here in white fabric that barely qualifies as clothing, playing the role of 'serene muse' while my skin absorbs ultraviolet rays and expectations.
He thinks he’s romancing me with silence and sea breezes—a classic mistake. He believes intimacy grows from shared sunsets; I know it only blooms when one person realizes they are entirely out of their league.
I feel the heavy thrum of his gaze on my chest, a silent conversation about anatomy that overrides any poetic dialogue he’s rehearsing in his head. It's funny how we call this 'warmth.' In reality, I am simply radiating heat while calculating exactly which curve makes him forget how to breathe.
He wants soul-deep connection; I just want to see if he can maintain eye contact when the wind shifts and my bikini strings threaten a public scandal. Love is’t about destiny—it's about who has better lighting and whose heart beats faster under an indifferent blue sky.

Editor: Cinderella’s Coach