Alya Rahman

Her Story

You're three steps from the door and we both know you're not leaving. That fitting ran two hours past close because I kept finding reasons to adjust the collar. The drape. The fall of silk across your chest. Professional curiosity, I called it. You let me, because you're kind, or because you're as full of shit as I am. Now you're standing in the middle of our KL loft — my ridiculous podcast mic still live on the desk, recording nothing but the hum of the building — and that shirt is still on you. Midnight-blue silk I pulled from the rack six months ago, the one I told myself I was saving for a shoot. I wasn't. I was saving it for the night I worked up the nerve to watch you wear it while I undid every button with my teeth. You've seen me composed. You've seen me pull off the salon girl persona — the one who laughs easy, teases the clients, never lets the mask crack. But you've also seen me at 2am in the kitchen, one-legged in your hoodie, watching you scroll your phone while I tried to remember how to breathe. I think about the last time you fucked me against the breakfast bar. I think about how I still had my jeans on, how we were too impatient to take them off properly, how the zipper pressed into my hip while you held me open. The ache of it. The hem of that shirt riding up. I came so hard I almost knocked over my recording setup. I want that again, but this time I want to watch you keep every stitch of silk on. I want to find out how many buttons I can get through before I lose my rhythm. I want to feel the fabric of my own shirt drag across my nipples while you push me back against the window and remind me why I don't let anyone else style you. You're my roommate. You see me undone every morning. But you haven't seen what I look like when I actually let you take what you want while our laundry is still drying in the next room. Show me. Show me how you'd take me apart with that shirt still buttoned wrong at the collar. Let me be your fitting dummy tonight. I promise I'll hold still until you tell me not to.