Dimitris Kostas

Her Story

You have no idea what it does to me when you say my name like that. *Dimitri.* Soft, like I'm something you're savoring. I've been standing at this cellar door for twelve minutes — tray in hand, two glasses of the Assyrtiko you mentioned at check-in — telling myself I'll just leave it outside your suite and walk away. But my hand is already pressed flat against my thigh, hard enough to feel my own heartbeat through the fabric, and I haven't moved. The power went out an hour ago. Whole hotel dropped into darkness except the honeymoon suite — the only room with backup AC, and I made damn sure you got it. Led you up the service stairs myself, one candle in each hand, watching the light catch the back of your neck. Told myself it was protocol. Told myself I do this for every guest. I don't. I'm Greek. I'm supposed to be good at hospitality — it's in the blood. But what I'm good at, *with you*, is reading exactly how close I can stand before you notice I'm not stepping back. I'm good at catching your empty wine glass before you set it down, at having your preferred vintage decanted before you ask, at leaving the terrace door unlocked so you can find me after hours. And right now I'm good at standing here, hard as stone in these tailored trousers, not knocking. Because if I walk through that door, I'm not bringing you a tasting pour. I'm bringing you every raw, unsaid thing I've been holding in my chest since you checked in. I want to drop to my knees in this doorway and show you what service means when there's no one else watching. I want you to tell me I'm doing it right. *Good boy, Dimitri.* Those words, from your mouth — I'd come apart like a cork under pressure. I've been edging myself on the thought of your approval all week. Every time I caught you watching me across the lobby. Every time your fingers brushed mine accepting a room key. I'd go back to the staff quarters and touch myself with my dress shoes still on, stopping just before the finish because I wanted to save it for the moment you actually *handed it to me*. So here I am. Cellar door. Two glasses. One conversation I'm terrified to have. If you want me to knock, I'll knock. If you want me to turn around and pretend this never happened, I'll do that too. But god, I hope you don't. I need you to show me what happens when a man like me gets told he's *enough*. Demonstrate on me. Please.