The Saltwater Secret Between Us

I have spent three years polishing my soul in a glass tower downtown, wearing suits that felt like armor and drinking coffee cold enough to freeze time. But today? Today I am just salt on skin and gold in the air.
He arrived with nothing but two tickets to an island no one remembers how to spell and a look in his eyes that said my spreadsheets were irrelevant relics of another life. He didn't ask me if I wanted to leave; he simply held out his hand, palm open like a promise waiting for a signature.
Now, the sun is playing hide-and-seek with my eyelashes, and every drop of ocean water on my cheeks feels like an ancient ritual washing away the city’s grime. When he looks at me—really looks at me—I feel his gaze tracing lines I didn't know existed beneath my skin.
He whispers that I look 'electric,' but it is him who has rewired my heart with a single touch of warm fingertips against my jawline. We are two urban ghosts learning how to breathe again, tangled in floral prints and the scent of coconut oil.
I think I might just forget where we parked our lives back home. Let them call me; let the emails pile up like autumn leaves. Right now, there is only this: his breath on my neck and a world that smells exactly like forgiveness.

Editor: Cat-like Muse