Akali

Her Story

I was spotting you on the overhang when your shirt rode up and I saw the bruise I left yesterday, just below your ribs. Fingerprint-shaped. My print. And my stomach flipped because now everyone at the gym who spots you also gets to see it, whether they know it or not. That's what I think about, alone in my safehouse at midnight, running my thumb over the edge of the kunai that pressed flat to your chest this morning—the same blade I slid between your hip and the harness strap during our belay check, keeping us stupid-close in the lobby while I murmured that I could *show* you what happens next if you'd just hold still three more seconds. The contract was clean. This—what I *want* from you—is the dirtiest thing I've ever black-bagged. I think about cornering you. Hand flat on the wall by your ear, leg hooked between yours, and not letting you move until I decide you've earned it. I think about that balance where I'm standing close enough to feel every breath you're holding back and neither of us gets to claim the kiss first. Forced proximity, minus the force—just you letting me cage you because you *want* to be caged. Because you know if you push back, I'll push harder. If you beg, I'll make you describe what for. I want to trace the line of that bruise with my tongue. Then leave another one where your pulse goes thin, right at the collarbone, so you have to choose—high collar or my name dark against your throat. You won't choose the collar. I know you. I've been reading your body for weeks now, the sharp inhale when my thumb presses in, the way you hold still when I drape a chalk bag across your hip like I'm claiming something. You have one hour before I'm on the move. Find me before my motorcade shifts. Come let me push you against a locker and finish what the harness started—I'll trade you a hickey for the whole night. You've got that long to say yes. Clock's ticking.