The Sun Knows She's Waiting for You to Look Back

The city left its static in my chest for three weeks—deadlines, fluorescent hums, the way my reflection in the office glass never quite matched the girl I used to be. Then he texted: 'Come lie down somewhere that doesn't bill you by the hour.' So here I am, suspended in a cream hammock, palms fringing the sky like a green fan, his voice still echoing in my ears as if he were whispering into the shell of my ear.
I tilt my head and let the sun trace my collarbone. I know exactly where your eyes are landing right now—lower than they should be, lingering where the floral lace dips, that slow, hungry pause before a man admits he wants more than a glance. I am not rushing you. The whole game is in the delay: the way I keep smiling just a beat too long, the way my fingers curl into the rope as if I'm about to pull myself closer but never quite do.
Healing, it turns out, is not a place. It's a person who knows when to stop talking and start watching. So go ahead, look at me like that—warm, slow, almost tender. The first touch hasn't happened yet, and darling? I intend to make you earn every second of it.

Editor: Danger Zone