The Temperature of Forgiveness

He thinks he knows me because he’s seen my spreadsheets and heard my sharp tongue in board meetings. He calls it 'efficiency'; I call it survival armor.
But here, on this balcony at dawn with the city still breathing beneath a blanket of fog, I am stripped bare—literally and figuratively. My hair is damp from a shower that took too long because I was trying to wash away the memory of our last argument. The air is biting, yet it feels honest.
I’m holding two glasses of water like they are sacred relics or perhaps weapons in an unspoken truce. He doesn't say anything; he just stands there behind me, his presence a warm weight against my shivering skin.
'You're freezing,' he whispers. His voice is too soft for this world.
I want to tell him that I’ve been cold for years—that the ice in my chest doesn’t melt easily. But as our fingers brush while exchanging glasses, a sudden jolt of heat radiates through me, more potent than any heater or wool blanket. It's an irritatingly beautiful moment.
I look at him with eyes that have learned to hide everything, yet right now, they are wide open. I don’t want his apologies; I just want this silence where the only thing loud is my heart beating against a ribcage it’s finally starting to outgrow.
'Don't get used to this,' I mutter, even as I lean back into him, letting the warmth of his breath graze my neck. He smiles—that slow, patient smile that makes me feel like I can stop fighting for just one morning.

Editor: Hedgehog