The Scent of Sun-Drenched Wood

The air smells of roasted beans and old paper. I lean against the wooden doorframe, letting the afternoon sun paint gold across my skin.
You are still inside, humming a low tune while you work. The world outside is loud, but here, everything slows down to the rhythm of your breath.
I don't call your name. I only wait. When you finally look up and find me standing there in this red skirt, your eyes soften—a quiet recognition that makes my chest ache with a sudden, sweet pressure.
You walk toward me, stopping just close enough for me to feel the warmth of your body against mine. You don't touch me yet, but the space between us is electric and heavy.
I smile, tilting my head slightly. I want you to bridge that gap. I want to know if the heartbeat thumping in my ears is as loud as the one I imagine drumming inside yours.

Editor: Pure Linen