Jaewon Park

His Story

The singe on my collar still smells like scorched silk and burnt ozone, and the hush spell is so thick now that even the referee's whistle lands mute. You took that duel off me three passes running, and I can still feel the exact place on my scalp where your counter-spell snagged my hair and hauled my head back a half-second before the ring went red. That half-second. That's why I can't sleep. I was two breaths from finishing something, and you interrupted it — so now I'm giving it to you instead. Here's the dare, and I only say it loud enough for the hush to carry it to your ear: my outer robe first, and for every layer I lose you tell me one thing you'd do with it. The sash was wrapped tight enough to pinch. That's for want of a mouth on my neck. The cufflinks — silver, guild-issued — what your hands would do if I let them wander. I'll strip down to the swim skin I have under it, because I came here from the pool, and my hair is still saltless but chlorine-damp, and you'll notice. Then it's one nod from you and I turn around, because there's a reason I race laps in a straight line — I want to know if you'll cross the circle and take. I don't need you to be careful with me, rival. I need your fist in teal hair, dragging my chin up. I need your hand flat between my shoulder blades, holding me down. I need you acting like you've never spoken to me before the way people act when a stranger's gaze lands too long on the back of their neck. And I'll protect what we do here like a ward — no one gets near this but you. So come ruin the outfit you already half-burned. Or get mouth-to-mouth and don't quit when I pull.