ManoJob
Manojob Pic(s)
The city slept beneath a blanket of oppressive, humid air, but in our room, the silence was a living thing, charged with the unspoken language of our bodies. He stood by the window, the pale moonlight tracing the line of his shoulders as he watched the heat-lightning pulse on the horizon. I crossed the space between us, the worn floorboards cool beneath my bare feet, and pressed my cheek against the warmth of his back, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart through his thin shirt. His breath hitched, a soft, captured sound, as his hand found mine, our fingers intertwining in a perfect, familiar lock. He turned slowly, his gaze holding mine with an intensity that made the world outside vanish into insignificance. His thumb, gentle and sure, traced the line of my jaw, sending a cascade of shivers down my spine. I leaned into his touch, my eyes closing as I breathed him in, a scent of summer night and clean skin that was uniquely his. Our foreheads met, and in that suspended moment, the air itself seemed to thicken with a profound, aching tenderness. A soft sigh escaped my lips, not of weariness, but of a deep, soul-level contentment I had only ever found with him. We stood there, wrapped in the sultry darkness, two souls communicating in a silent dialect of shared breath and trembling touches.
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