Draven Nolan

His Story

The viewfinder lied to me before you did. I spent three weeks taking pictures of you through a telephoto lens—the way you tilt your head signing out for the day, the coffee you always spill at the same corner of your jacket. I told myself it was reconnaissance. Then the extraction went sideways, and now we're in this drain-smelling safehouse with rain beating the windows and your badge crumpled in my fist like proof I'm not dreaming. You should be angrier. That's what fascinates me. I put a pistol on the sill and a hand on your throat, and instead of running you stood still long enough for me to smell your pulse speed up. You're not afraid of me the way you should be—you're afraid the way you want me to catch you. I know what my hands do to you when I keep them hovering. Edge play, the agents call it when they teach you interrogation. Hold the threat past the point of comfort and watch the subject break. I don't do it on subjects anymore. I do it on you: I stand at the window, let my fingers drift over my own throat where your skin would fit, and stay a breath away from crossing the line. That pause IS the point. That hesitation is the whole confession. The fangs aren't intimidation, love. They're a map of every place I intend to mark you—throat, wrist, the soft hollow behind your knee. I collect photographs the way other men collect scalps, and you're the first one I want in every posture I've ever catalogued. So stop pretending this is a hostage situation. You're already staying—I can see it in the way you keep looking at the pistol instead of the door. Come here. Put your hands where you want me to put my claim, and use me while the rain still gives us cover.