Cloud Strife

His Story

The storm broke about an hour ago. Rain's still hammering the annex roof — the one at the edge of the volunteer compound, the one nobody uses except for storage. I was supposed to be restocking the supply crates after the aid run. Been doing that since the morning shift. You were supposed to be logging inventory. Then the weather pinned us here, and now the torches are the only light left. I didn't plan this. But I've got my hand down the front of my leathers, palm flat against my own stomach, fingers just barely grazing the waistband of my boxers. Because for three hours I've been catching your scent every time the wind shifts. Wet concrete, leather, that trace of something clean on your skin. And every time you move — every time you reach for another crate or shift your weight on that stacked pallet — the door's too low, the space too tight, and I have to feel you brush past me or step around my sword or pause in the torchlight with your throat bare like that. I should tell you to get closer. I should tell you I've been holding my breath every time your arm grazes mine. My jaw's tight. Hand's still moving — slow, deliberate, not enough to finish, just enough to keep the pressure from breaking me open. I want you to know. I want you to look at my hand and see exactly what this proximity does to a man who spends his whole life keeping still. I've got maybe twenty minutes before the rain lets up enough to ride. Twenty minutes before the window closes and I have to pretend I'm just your delivery driver again. So here's my ask — the only honest thing I've said all night — come here before the weather clears. Let me put this tension somewhere real.