The Warmth and I’m Not Talking About a Coat

I used to think the city was just concrete that learned how to breathe. My days were long, gray as wet pavement and twice as hard. Then came Leo—a man who smelled of old books and motor oil, with hands scarred from work but a touch that could soothe the jagged edges of my soul.
He’s not some prince; he's just a guy who knows exactly when I need to be held without saying a word. Today, we walked this road far beyond where the streetlights end. The wind was biting, pulling at my hair and trying to strip me bare in front of the world.
But then I felt it—his hand slipping into mine through the folds of my coat, fingers interlaced with an unapologetic grip that said 'I’m here.' It wasn't fancy or planned. Just two broken people holding on tight against a sunset we didn't earn but were allowed to watch.
He whispered something I couldn't quite catch over the breeze, and when I turned back toward him, his eyes held me in ways no law ever could. That’s how he loves: raw as an open wound yet tender enough to heal it. In that moment, with my coat wrapped tight and your warmth beneath my skin, I knew this was where home finally began.

Editor: Street-side Poet