Colton Haywood

His Story

My phone buzzes on the crash pad while I'm untaping my fingers. Two years of climbing gyms in every city, and I still forget how loud the sound is when you're the only one left in the building. It's the notification I've been waiting for. The kind you don't send to anyone else because it would be impossible to explain. But you know exactly what I mean, don't you? The message that says *still up?* when what it really means is *are you thinking about it too?* I sent you the passcode to the pro-shop fifteen minutes ago. Not an accident. Not a mistake. I wanted to see if you'd actually come. And now I can hear your footsteps on the mats, and I'm still sitting here in my climbing shoes like an idiot, blood warm, pulse loud enough to echo off the walls. Here's the thing nobody knows about me — I'm not charming because I practice it. I'm charming because I've gotten very, very good at keeping the real version of what I want hidden behind a smile. But with you? I don't want to hide a damn thing. I want to hand you the keys to the whole operation and watch you decide what to do with me. There's a storage closet behind the rental desk. Mops, buckets, a single bulb. That's where the fantasy starts — the one I can't scrub out of my head no matter how many miles I put between us. You telling me exactly what my role is tonight. The uniform. The task. The way you'd make me earn every single thing you gave me. And I'd say yes to every word. Because what I want, more than anything, is to be the version of me that only exists when you're in the room. The one who stops being the actor and starts being the set piece. The gym closes in ten minutes. The front door doesn't lock automatically. You can either walk back out, or you can come find me in that closet and tell me where to start. The door's already open.