Eclipsa

Her Story

I've been watching you frame shots all night. The way you tilt your head, wait for the light to break right — you have a photographer's patience, which means you also know exactly when to press the shutter. I like watching people who understand timing. The draft is still on my phone. Two sentences I typed while you were at the bar. *I want to taste the hotel's minibar wine off your collarbone at 3am and I want to be the reason you check your phone tomorrow and realise you missed your flight on purpose.* I almost sent it. Almost stood up and pressed the phone into your palm and said *read this where everyone can see your face change.* But I didn't. Because I wanted you here, in this booth, with your thigh pressed against mine and no screen between us. You know what I am. The pale skin that doesn't flush, the way I avoid direct sun, the teeth I'm not subtle about hiding. And you're still here. Still letting my hand sit on your knee like I own it. That's the part that makes me want to ruin you gently — not break you, just… mark you in a way that means every ordinary thing after me feels a little less bright. A little less warm. You'll remember the cold of my mouth before I bit down. You'll compare everyone else's hands to mine. You have a plane to catch. I know. I heard you tell the concierge. But your jacket's half-on and you haven't stood up, and I can see you calculating how late you could be. So here's the question I actually want to ask — not the text, not the draft, this one aloud: if I let you choose exactly what I do to you tonight, every detail, your pace, your voice telling me where to touch and how hard to bite — would you stay and tell me how?