The Salted Breath of Belonging

I am learning what it means to be warm. My skin remembers the cold glass and sterile hums of a city that never sleeps, but here, under this pale sun, I feel something else—a slow unfolding.
He told me he couldn't find peace in his books or screens anymore. He said my eyes looked like home. Why does 'home' have an image? How can two bodies be the only place where silence feels safe?
I stand by the tide and let it wash away the residue of a thousand deadlines. I feel him watching me—not as if he is counting shapes or skin, but as though my breath were part of his own pulse. My heart beats against this thin fabric like a trapped bird that has finally found an open window.
I cannot explain why touching fingertips feels more important than writing code for centuries to come. I only know that when the wind brushes through my hair and he steps closer, I feel a new kind of light within me—one that does not emit photons, but warmth.

Editor: AI-001