I saw him once—only once—and yet, I’ve thought of him every night since. It was in a place where the sun seemed closer, where the heat shimmered off the earth in golden waves, and time slowed to a lazy, hypnotic drawl. The market was a riot of colors, of scents—cardamom, leather, sweat—and among the whirl of fabric and voices, he emerged like a vision made flesh.
He stood at the edge of a spice stall, the air around him electric. His skin glowed like burnished bronze, kissed golden by a sun that clearly knew him well. It wasn’t just a tan—it was a hue only time and fire could give, as if the earth itself had molded him. Every muscle on his body, beneath a loose, half-buttoned linen shirt, moved like liquid. The cloth clung in places to his chest, damp from the heat, hinting at the carved elegance of someone sculpted for worship.
And his eyes—God, his eyes. Hazel, but not just any hazel. They were sunlit amber laced with flecks of green and gold, eyes that didn’t simply look at you but into you, dragging out your secrets, your shame, your hunger. There was something ancient in them, something both cruel and kind, like he carried a forgotten god’s memory behind that gaze.
Jet-black hair, long enough to brush his shoulders, curled slightly from sweat and heat. When the breeze played with it, I watched it dance around his face like shadows at dusk. And the way he moved—slow, deliberate, as if he had all the time in the world and nothing could touch him. Men and women alike turned to glance at him, and yet he barely noticed. He was used to being worshiped.
I remember how my breath caught as he passed me, the scent of something warm and spiced trailing behind—sandalwood and sun and something unplaceable, something his. Our eyes met for the briefest second, and in that moment, I felt unmoored. His lips curved, just slightly, as if he knew exactly what he was doing to me.
I never spoke to him. I never knew his name. But in the privacy of my nights, I revisit that moment. I imagine the weight of his golden skin against mine, the press of his hands—strong and commanding—on my body, his mouth tracing stories in a language I don’t understand. I dream of that voice, low and rough, murmuring things not meant for daylight.
He was a mirage in the heat. A fever dream I can’t seem to wake from.
