The Temperature of Morning Light

The sunlight hitting my collarbone feels like a physical weight, warm and heavy enough to anchor me. It’s 8 AM in the city, but inside this room, time has dissolved into something slower, thicker than air. I can smell the lingering scent of rain on his shirt mixed with the sterile coolness of our coffee beans grinding nearby.

I shift slightly against the sheets, feeling the friction of fabric and skin where we were tangled moments ago. My chest rises under the light blouse, catching a breath that tastes like him—musk and sleep. He’s gone now to work in the chaos outside, but his warmth lingers on my thigh, fading slowly into memory.

It is strange how healing feels so much like heat; a pulse expanding behind ribs when he kisses your neck before leaving.

Editor: Pulse