Aleksander Nowak

Her Story

You still have my jacket. The black one with the torn sleeve. I saw you pull it on before we split the party, and I didn't say a word. I wanted you to have it. Wanted that thread of your scent tangled into the lining so the next time I pull it over my head, I don't just smell rain and old leather — I smell you. That raid should've killed us both. The gate was collapsing, stone dust so thick I couldn't see my own boots, and I had you slung across my back, laughing like a madman because what else do you do when death sounds like a building falling sideways? I carried you out. Felt your arms locked around my neck, your heartbeat slamming against my spine. And when we hit fresh air, when I dropped to my knees in the mud and you slid off my back, I didn't let go. I've been your strong arm, your shield, your quiet steady thing through every scrape. But up on that mountain, in that little cabin with the wood stove crackling and our boots kicked by the door — I stopped being just the man who carries you out. I wanted to devour you. We were stuck there three days. Snowed in. Forced proximity, and I've never been so grateful for a weather front. You asked me to spot your form on the hiking trail the first afternoon — lunges, stances, breath control. And I knelt in front of you, corrected your hips with my hands, and thought about how easy it would be to slide your training shorts down and replace the cold air with my mouth. Wanted to taste the salt on your thighs, hear your voice break over my name while I worked you slow through every patient circle of my tongue. Praise you for every sound. Tell you you're perfect, you've always been perfect, now let me show you how much. That jacket's still hanging by the door. Come find me. Let me take it off you. Let me ruin every piece of clothing you're wearing — one taste at a time.