intimacy
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Softness was never the same as harmlessness; roses have thorns, pretty things have teeth, and survival taught her how to use both.
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She does not need saving—only someone who can see the tired eyes, old wounds, and chaos without asking her to become smaller.
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Home becomes a scent left on borrowed fabric—sawdust, sweat, summer, and the strange peace of breathing someone in after they are gone.
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A quiet spark of desire grows beneath rain-soft glances, moonlit silence, and everything neither person is ready to name.
Between Bruises & Blooms 