The Weight of a Single Drop

The city is a furnace today, but here on the balcony, I’ve found my own private rain.
I can feel you watching me from behind the glass door—not with hunger, but with that agonizingly slow curiosity that makes my skin prickle under the mist. You haven't moved in three minutes; I know because I can hear your breath hitch every time a drop of water slides down the curve of my collarbone to vanish into white fabric.
I stretch my arms high, letting the cool spray dance across my fingertips and chest, deliberately prolonging this ritual. It’s a silent invitation wrapped in hesitation.
You think you're being subtle by leaning against the frame, but I can see your knuckles whitening on the wood. You want to step out here—to break the thin veil of humidity between us—but you won't until you know for certain that I’m waiting.
I tilt my head slightly, catching your gaze through a curtain of damp hair. A small smile plays on my lips—not quite an answer, but more than just a greeting.
The air is thick with things we aren't saying yet: the way you like how I look in this light, and the way I love that you’re terrified to make the first move while it feels so inevitable.
Go on then. Step into the mist.

Editor: Danger Zone