The Weight of Silk and Silence

He always manages to appear at the periphery, doesn't he? A phantom limb sensation until he’s actually *there*, leaning against the doorway as if waiting for an invitation. An invitation to what, exactly? To witness this mess of damp hair and borrowed comfort?
The silk feels cool against my skin – a deliberate chill I hadn't anticipated after the heat of the shower. It mocks the way his gaze lingers, doesn’t it? He probably thinks I don't notice.
I wonder what he sees when he looks at me like that…a woman shedding her armor, or a challenge waiting to be accepted?
He hasn’t spoken, just watches. And in this city of millions, where connection is fleeting and everyone is an island, the silence feels almost indecently intimate. It's a dangerous game we're playing, this dance of unspoken things…and I have a feeling neither of us wants it to end.

Editor: Danger Zone