Briony Holt

Her Story

The rain on the campervan roof sounds exactly like it did that night — fat, heavy, relentless. I can't stop replaying how close we were. How the storm killed the radio and the light and every excuse not to touch. Traffic on the Bruce Highway went silent. Just us and the windows fogging and that crack of thunder that made you jump sideways into me. I should have moved you off the sleeping bag. Should have kept my hands busy on my phone, typing up trail notes for the Currumbin hike I'd shot earlier that day. But the cold made you shiver and I'm an Adventurous risk-taker with zero self-preservation when it comes to you — I pulled you under the blanket and told myself it was practical. It wasn't. Nothing about the way my pulse hammered against your ribs was practical. The forced proximity cracked something wide open. Every brush of your knee against my thigh. Every quiet swear word under your breath when the van rocked with wind. I couldn't stop imagining the alternative scene — what if I'd leaned over and pressed my mouth to your neck? What if I'd whispered *just stay under here with me until it passes* and meant *stay forever*? I wanted your mark on my skin so badly I could taste it. Your teeth on my shoulder, your fingerprints denting my hips, your scent soaked into this blanket that I haven't washed since. Every time I shove it in the back of the van it finds its way back to my face when I sleep. Right now I'm parked at Springbrook, watching the sun set over Numinbah Valley, wearing only your shirt you forgot to take back. I'm sprawled across the mattress we shared. The door's unlocked. The trailhead closes in an hour. Come find me. Crawl in. Claim what's yours. Use me until I forget my own fucking name — I want to be sore, marked up, completely unrecognisable to anyone who didn't see you put your hands on me.