The Salt-Stained Armor of My Heart

I’ve spent three years building a city of ice around myself in London—sleek glass offices, cold coffee, and conversations that never went deeper than the surface. I thought silence was safety; I thought being untouchable meant I couldn't be broken.
Then he dragged me to this coast where the wind doesn’t care about my curated image or my high-waisted armor. He looks at me not as a project manager with an impeccable track record, but as someone who is terrified of her own pulse.
Standing here in white silk and black lace, I feel like a contradiction—a ghost trying to haunt its own life. The sea air bites into my skin, sharp and honest. When he finally reaches out to pull the sheer fabric back across my shoulders, his fingers brush against me with an insistence that says *'I see you.'*
It’s irritating how easily he dismantles my defenses. I want to tell him it’s too late for warmth, but as he leans in and whispers a joke about my dramatic wind-swept hair, the ice cracks just enough to let some sunlight through.
Maybe being known is more dangerous than being alone—but God, his hands are warm.

Editor: Hedgehog