She’s a spitfire.

  Not loud—

  controlled.

  The kind that burns low and steady,

  like it knows exactly what it could destroy

  and chooses restraint instead.

  Her skin is terracotta,

  warm like something ancient,

  like the earth remembers her.

  She moves through days differently each time—

  energy shifting,

  moods adjusting,

  never predictable,

  never dull.

  I want more of her

  in the way you want to understand a storm,

  not outrun it.

  I want to know the life she carries quietly,

  the history in her shoulders,

  the reasons behind the way she holds herself

  like she’s always braced for impact.

  I want her tired.

  Not fragile.

  Just done.

  Done enough to let the weight slide off

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  and rest somewhere it won’t be questioned.

  To melt without explanation.

  To exist without performing strength.

  I know she can handle herself.

  That’s not what this is.

  I want to protect her anyway—

  not because she needs saving,

  but because being strong all the time

  is its own kind of violence.

  I want to see her soft.

  Not exposed to the world—

  just to me.

  I want to earn the moment

  she stops guarding herself,

  lets the mask loosen,

  lets silence exist without tension.

  I don’t want to own her.

  I don’t want to cage her.

  I want her to choose me

  as the place she lowers her defenses.

  To want me to stand watch.

  To trust me with that responsibility.

  To let me succeed at it—

  cleanly, deliberately,

  without force.

  The wanting is intense.

  The obsession sits sharp in my chest.

  But it’s manageable.

  It’s grounded.

  It only becomes dangerous

  if it goes unanswered.

  If she reaches back,

  if she meets my eyes and doesn’t flinch,

  then the desire becomes something else entirely—

  not hunger,

  not control,

  but purpose.