open the door my love

You notice the curves first — the way they pull your attention before anything else has the chance to.

You reach for the handle, fingers already warm, already certain. You feel the threshold between you and what waits on the other side thinning with every breath. You want to cross it slowly, deliberately, drawing out the moment until your pulse becomes the loudest thing in the room.

You open the door. You let your eyes move without rushing. You take in every detail the way you'd take a long drink — necessary, greedy, deeply satisfying.