The Sweetness Between Seconds

I can still smell the linen spray on my skin, a faint ghost of lavender and morning dew that lingers long after the sheets have been folded. The apartment is quiet—the kind of silence that doesn't feel empty, but full of waiting.
He left twenty minutes ago for his first meeting across town, yet he’s still here in the way I move through this kitchen. My feet are bare on the cold tiles, a sharp contrast to the warm sunlight spilling over my shoulders like an old blanket.
I reach for the grapes—deep purple pearls chilled from the fridge—and feel them burst against my tongue with a sweetness that reminds me of our first date in October. I’m wearing nothing but black lace and memories of how he looked at me this morning, his eyes soft as wool sweaters.
In the city's relentless hum, we have built this small sanctuary: where love is not found in grand declarations or expensive gifts, but in a shared bowl of fruit before work and the lingering scent of sun-dried sheets on my skin. I linger here for another moment, letting time stretch thin, savoring the quiet intimacy that makes me feel entirely at home within myself.

Editor: Laundry Line