She is warmth,
cupped in trembling hands,
melting the frost from my skin.
I was built from iron and ice,
fortified by duty,
hardened by solitude.
A man who kneels for no one—
yet I find myself bending,
drawn to the hush of her voice,
the certainty in her touch.
She does not flinch at my quiet,
does not shrink from the weight I carry.
Instead, she laces her fingers with mine,
as if they were always meant to fit.
How cruel,
that she understands me before I do.
That she sees softness where I swore there was none.
That she whispers my name,
and it sounds like mercy.
I think, perhaps,
I have never truly known warmth
until now,
until her.
He is winter,
a storm wrapped in restraint,
the hush before a snowfall.
A man of calloused hands,
who holds tea cups with careful fingers,
who treads softly even when the ground
trembles beneath him.
They call him stone, unshaken—
but I have seen the way his breath falters
when I brush a kiss against his knuckles.
I have felt the way his walls crack,
not with force,
but with the simple act of being held.
He does not realise it yet,
but I have made my home
in the spaces he thought were empty.
And when he finally reaches for me,
his hands are no longer cold.
Instead, they linger—
hesitant, as if testing the shape of belonging.
Fingers curling like ivy around mine,
anchoring, not clinging.
A silent vow whispered through touch:
I am here.