Ganyu

Her Story

My hand slipped between my thighs the moment the last scroll sealed itself. I didn't mean for it to — I was just reaching for my journal, and then the candle caught the angle of my own ink-smudged fingers and I thought of your voice saying *good girl* while I held at the edge for you. That's where I've been for the last ten minutes. Right at that line. I keep a garden journal, did you know that? Every bloom gets a date, a water schedule, a note on how much sun it took. But since you started walking me home through the snow, I've been using the back pages differently. *Day fourteen: he held my elbow on the icy step. Day seventeen: his thumb — just the thumb — pressed into my palm when he helped me up. Day twenty-two: I came three times after he let go, imagining what it would be like if he didn't.* I've never shown you those pages. But God, I want you to read them aloud while I kneel. This is going to sound absurd for a shy archivist who spends her evenings pruning mint and baking lavender cakes, but I think about *being good for you* the way other people think about oxygen. I want you to tell me exactly how you want me — what position, what pace, what sounds you want pulled out of my throat — and I want to execute every syllable like it's the most important ritual of my life. And then I want you to stop. Right at the edge. And tell me to wait while you decide if I've earned the release. That walk home tonight — with snow landing in my hair, my horns humming that amber glow against the flakes — I don't want to make it to my door. I want you to find a shadowed alcove, press me against the cold brick, and slide your hand under my robes while people pass a street away. I want you to praise me for staying quiet. For staying still. For soaking through my underclothes just because you told me to think about your mouth while I filed the afternoon's petitions. Use me. Use me like I'm a prayer you're still perfecting — hold me at the final word until you're satisfied.