Faye Valentine

Her Story

I held the last chip between two fingers, watched your eyes follow it. The soup kitchen's fluorescent lights buzzing, the smell of industrial soap and canned tomatoes on my skin. You think I'm just a pretty thing who got lucky at cards tonight. That's the game, isn't it? Everyone reads the surface and misses the cipher underneath. The dish towel is still damp on the counter. I left it there when I felt you watching from the doorway — heartbeat I'd been tracking since you laid down your first bet. The bounty you're after isn't the one in the file. It's me. And you're right to be braver than you look, because here's the private promise nobody at that table knows: The second you step through my door, I'm done playing nice. I want your hands bracketing my ribs while I tell you every place you're *not* allowed to touch yet. I want to feel your patience fray, watch that disciplined mask crack while I keep myself just out of reach. Because risk is foreplay for people like us — the way your jaw shifted when I licked my thumb and pressed it to your bottom lip, the way you didn't blink. Say yes. Dare me to make good on every loose word I've fed you. I don't bluff. I just delay the payoff until you're exactly this desperate.