When she puts her hands on me,
she is not just touching flesh—
she is claiming something deeper she is calming something deeper.

She presses her palms against my chest,
as if she can quiet the storm beneath my ribs,
as if her fingers were made to still the ache
that lives there.

She pulls me closer,
and I go willingly.
Because in the moment before her grip tightens,
before her breath catches,
before her body melts into mine,
I already know—
I have become a place she calls home.