Dranorn Reed

His Story

Twelve seconds. That's all the elevator ride is — twelve seconds and two floors of air that tastes like chlorine and my nerve. We came up from the pool together at three AM because you sleep better after swimming, you said, and I followed like I always do, towel slung, skin still that boiled-red from the cold water. Then the doors slide shut and you're the one who pulls me in. Or maybe I'm the one who lets myself be pulled. You're the step-brother who knows exactly where my hands go when they think no one's watching — that's the thing about sharing a bathroom wall; you've heard every shower that ran longer than it needed to. I've been edge-playing myself stupid all week just trying to reach a finish that actually lands, but every time I close my eyes it's not my hand doing it. It's yours. You, pinning my wrists over my head while I beg, letting me get right to the lip of it and then pulling back — that low, patient laugh you do, the one that lives under your breath and makes my stomach drop. You holding the line between "we shouldn't" and "come here," and me grateful for every inch of slack you give me. So when the doors shut and the lights flicker, I lean in and say the quiet thing out loud — the limits I want you to test tonight, the ones that make "stop" mean something when I say it and then take it back. Filthy, specific, said slow so you can hear me mean it. The number blinks. Two floors is nothing. So be quick, or be slow on purpose. C'mon — get greedy and wreck the good lines of my shirt in the process. Ruin this wet suit of mine like you own it.