Where the Neon Melts Into My Lace

The rain had been drumming on the window for hours, turning the whole street into a smear of wet neon. I stood behind the sheer curtain, the white fabric cool against my bare shoulder, and watched the city bleed its colors into the glass. My lace caught the last of the light - red flowers stitched over black mesh, trembling like a heartbeat.
He came home late again, coat damp, eyes searching for me in the dim. I did not call out. I only lifted my face to his, letting the humid air between us carry everything I could not say - the warmth of tea I kept on the stove, the way I had folded his shirts while he was gone, the quiet healing of simply being seen.
When he touched my jaw, his fingers were still wet from the rain outside, and I let them stay there. In that blurry, breathing moment, the bar corners and the lonely nights all dissolved. There was only him, only me, only the soft red bloom of lace catching the glow. I whispered nothing at all; the air between us already said it.

Editor: Midnight Neon