The Pink Fever I Swore I'd Escape

They told me warmth was a weakness, that the city only fed on the cold-blooded. So I built my fortress of glass and late-night spreadsheets, swore I'd never let anyone see me soft. Then he walked in with a pink bow and lace sleeves and ruined everything.
I caught myself staring at his hands across the cafe table, those long fingers tracing sugar into black coffee like a man drawing a map to some forbidden country. My pulse went traitor-fast. Every rational cell in my brain screamed escape plan, get out, you are not this delicate creature in pink satin. But fatalism is a slow poison and I was already drunk on it.
He didn't fix me. He just wrapped me in something that felt like being held after a long fever, whispered your softness is not a flaw, it is the only thing I refuse to escape from. And God help me, in that pink-lit moment I stopped running. The impulse was forbidden, the attraction fatalistic, but for once I let it be the cure instead of the wound.

Editor: The Escape Plan