The Velvet Armor of Midnight

I wear this black leather dress like a barricade. It’s stiff, cold, and designed to keep people at arm's length—just like me.
The city lights outside the penthouse window are blurred streaks of neon indifference. I’ve spent three years perfecting my silence; becoming an expert in saying everything while meaning nothing. My eyes are wide open but they only see surface tension.
Then there is him, standing by the balcony with a glass of wine and that irritatingly patient smile. He doesn't try to break down my walls—he simply leans against them until I feel their weight shifting.
'You’re wearing your armor again,' he whispers, his voice grazing the shell of my ear like silk on stone.
I want to tell him it’s not armor; it’s a skin. But as his hand settles warmly at the small of my back—a touch that feels dangerously honest in this curated world—my breath hitches. The leather is cold against my shoulders, but where he touches me, I am melting.
I hate how easily he reads between the lines of my indifference. For a moment, I consider pushing him away with some sharp remark about boundaries and independence. Instead, I lean back into him, letting my guard slip just enough for him to see that beneath this glossy black shield is someone who has forgotten what it feels like to be held without being handled.

Editor: Hedgehog