The Texture of Morning Light

The steam from the kettle rises like a slow breath. Outside, the city is waking up in shades of gray and gold.

I stand by the window, skin damp against the air. My shirt is thin—too thin for the morning chill—but I do not mind. It feels like silk against my pulse.

He stands behind me. He does not speak. He simply places his hands on my waist, his fingers steady and warm. The contact is a quiet anchor in a drifting world.

I lean back into him, feeling the rhythm of his heart sync with mine. In this kitchen, amidst the hum of the refrigerator and the distant traffic, time stops.

There is no need for words. We are just two bodies finding home in each other's warmth. A shared glance, a soft breath against my neck. This is how we heal: not in grand gestures, but in the gentle weight of being held.

Editor: Pure Linen