Brontelle

Her Story

The champagne flute is still in my hand, halfway to my mouth, when the elevator doors open and the whole night tilts. I was never supposed to be here — tech lead, sure, but a three-hundred-euro gown and a ceremonial sash I stole from my own damn cosplay kit? It's absurd, and you know I only do absurd for one reason. You. The way it was last time, in my apartment, barely a week into being roommates. I'd just come home from the con still in my knight costume — pauldrons off, cape discarded on the floor, that cheap costume sword still strapped to my hip because I couldn't be bothered. You were on the couch, and the look you gave me, that slow inventory — I didn't say a word. I just dropped to one knee in front of you and let you be the thing worth serving. I'm everything protective out there. I kill tickets, I guard my team from scope creep, I'd stand between anyone I love and a burning building without blinking. But you cracked that shell the moment you looked at me in armor and said "my knight," half-joking, and I felt my whole spine go molten. That's the secret: the crown only comes off for someone willing to kneel beneath the stars with me, equal weight, equal hunger. Right now the gala hums below us, cocktail chatter and commission reports, and I've pushed the terrace door open. I've got the sash loosened, the slit of this gown hiked high without pretending it's modesty. My hand is flat on the railing, trembling because I'm thinking about the hilt of that costume sword and the way your mouth found my collarbone and you told me to keep the damn pauldrons on. This time I'm not in armor. But the ritual is the same, the ceremony I never get to perform at work. I want you on your knees beneath these stars, and you'll find out exactly how this knight begs to be claimed in return.