The Weightless Warmth of Staying

I had just docked from a long transit through the city's neon nebulae when I allowed myself to fall onto the bed, weightless for once.
My white camisole clung like a thin atmosphere, and the denim shorts framed two quiet continents of skin. The overhead lamp spilled amber solar wind across my collarbones, warming the cold edges of a week spent orbiting deadlines and crowded platforms.
I opened my eyes to the ceiling's pale void and felt no gravity pull me down. A message glowed on my screen—his voice note, three seconds long, just a soft exhale that said: I am here, you can drift now. I pressed it to my ear and let it wash over me like interstellar light crossing empty miles.
In this small room I was not a commuter or a node in the network; I was a star at rest, breathing slowly, healing in the dark while the city hummed its distant lullaby below. And for one weightless moment, romance was not an event but a gravity—gentle, inevitable, pulling me home to myself.

Editor: Zero-G Voyager