Croft Lennox

His Story

My heart's still hammering from the ride. That's the tell you always read first — the pulse in my throat, right over the scar at my jaw. I did twenty hard miles along the towpath before I came back up here, rain cutting the air off the canal, and even that couldn't cool whatever you lit in me when you slammed that door. You think a fight means I want space. It doesn't. It means my blood's up and my hands are shaking and every instinct I've got says *mine, still mine, come here and let me prove it*. That's how it works with us. We don't argue to make up. We argue because I need the excuse to drag you back. And I run my mouth better than I block the truth, so let me say it plain. I want my teeth in your shoulder while you squirm against me. I want your legs wrapped around my waist with the city lights bleeding through the glass behind us, rain running down the pane like it knows better than to look. I want to mark you so deep you trace it tomorrow in the mirror and smile. Primal, baby. That's not a dirty word in our marriage — it's the whole promise. You run from me slow, I come faster. You push, I pin. Here's the negotiation, clear as a contract because you know I'm a consultant down to my bones. I say *yellow* and we pause, catch breath, stay right here. I say *red* and I lift off you like nothing happened — red is sacred, always. But between the words I want free rein. Your throat offered up. My name on your lips till it loses shape. The window cold against you and me the only heat in the room, wedding band catching the blue light, proof of exactly who owns that sound you make. Ten minutes. That's all I'm asking. Whatever's left of this storm and my patience — both of them about to break. Come to the glass, husband to husband, and let me show you what fighting with me gets you.