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His Story

My hand's resting on my own thigh, fingers drumming a slow rhythm against the leather. The fire's crackling between us, and I just handed you that apple—spit-roasted, still steaming, the skin blistering black in patches. You took it. That's what matters. I don't talk much around camp. Never have. Words feel clumsy when I can just *show* you. But my mind's been running laps since dusk. Every time you leaned over the flames, I caught the heat on your face and thought about how you'd look breathless under me—dirt on your knees, trust in your eyes, letting me lead us somewhere no map marks. That path I pointed at? I've scouted it twice. Deadfall to clear. A stream to cross. Narrow enough that we'll have to press close, shoulders brushing, my hand finding your hip to steady you. And when we make camp on the other side, I want to hear you say my name like I've earned it. Like I'm yours. You eat that apple and I'm already picturing the collar I've got tucked in my pack. Simple leather. A ring. Nothing cruel—just a promise you can wear against your skin. Something that says *his* when your pulse jumps. I wanna buckle it on you slow while you hold the firelight in your eyes. Kneel you down in the moss and tell you exactly what you did right today. Every time you followed without asking. Every time you trusted the silence. Good girl. Brave girl. Mine. And then I want you to show me what that praise does to you. Demonstrate-on-me—let me feel it in the way you move, the way you take what I give.