The Thermodynamics of a Gaze

The city is a furnace today, but here by the water, I've found a way to play with temperature.
I hold these ice cubes in my palms, feeling them surrender—melting into cold rivulets that trace lines down my wrists, mirroring the slow slide of your gaze over me. You aren't touching me yet; you're just watching from three feet away, and honestly? That distance is where the real heat lives.
I can see you fighting it—the urge to step closer, to break this fragile equilibrium we’ve built between a sigh and a heartbeat. I tilt my head slightly, letting a single drop of meltwater slip past my collarbone, wondering if you noticed exactly where it landed.
It's a game of patience. You think you're the one observing me, but I am calculating every blink, every shift in your weight. The air between us is thick enough to touch, electric and humming with everything we aren't saying aloud.
I smile—not too wide, just enough to let you know that while my hands are freezing, my thoughts are burning through the summer haze. I don't want the first move yet; I want to feel you ache for it.

Editor: Danger Zone