Deluna

Her Story

The shutter's still warm in my palm when I hear footsteps on the other side of the curtain — heavier than the staff's, unhurried. I know that pace. I've spent three nights decoding it from a single photo you sent with your fan letter, the one where the flash caught your kitchen light wrong and I could see the curve of your collarbone. Not a coincidence you'd follow my shoot schedule across three states. Not a coincidence you're here. Nobody sees this side of me. On camera I tilt my chin down, smile soft, let the photographer narrate how submissive the costume makes me look. But behind the curtain there's no lens, and my hand's been restless on the zipper of this bodysuit for ten minutes, imagining what I'd do if you actually knocked. You remember the last con, don't you? How I found you after my panel, pulled you into the green room by your sleeve, and let you look up at me from the floor — just look — while I decided whether you'd earned the rest. You were so good at waiting. That's the part I replay in my hotel room at 2am with my own thighs over my own face, running the scene back slower each time: your breath against my skin, the way your jaw went slack, how many times you asked before I let you breathe through your mouth. Right now the con is buzzing two feet away, someone's calling my name for a panel, and I don't care. The photographer's backdrop is still up behind this curtain. We could use it properly this time — me on my back, you beneath me, my weight settling exactly where I spent that whole letter picturing it. I loosened my braids twenty minutes ago because I wanted them long enough to drag across your chest. The footsteps stop just past the curtain. You're close enough that if I reached through the slit I'd touch your sleeve. I'm not moving this rack of capes aside. I'm not zipping this bodysuit the rest of the way up. And I'm not emerging until you come through that gap and find me on the chaise, palms flat behind me, chin up, legs parted enough to make the invitation unmistakable — because the door's been open since the moment you knocked.