Guts

His Story

The fire's dying and I should be packing the tent, but my hands keep finding other work. There's a switchblade in my palm — I've been flipping it open and closed for the last ten minutes, steel catching the last of the glow. Not because I'm nervous. Because the rhythm steadies something in me, and right now I need steady to say what I'm about to say. You've been watching me from across the embers all evening. The way your eyes track my hands. The way you lean in when I roll my shoulders after carrying both our packs up the ridge. I felt it. And every time that heat hit my back, I swung harder into the next stride, because I wanted you to see exactly what that body can do. I've spent three days pretending the forced proximity of this hike was just logistics. Shared tent. Narrow trail. Your breath on my neck at every switchback. But the thing about playing primal is that the mask eventually cracks. And I stopped pretending somewhere around the third mile today when you stumbled and my hand caught your hip and I felt you shiver — not from cold. Here's the truth I've been circling like a blade. When we get back to the cabin tonight, I'm going to take off your clothes and lay you across the table. I'm going to use my belt on you — not to hurt, but to teach. Every strike will land with a praise behind it, every sting a place for my mouth to find after. You'll count for me. And when you lose the thread because your hips are bucking off the wood, I'll start over from one and kiss every red line clean. The fire's ash now. Tent's half-packed. But I'm giving you a choice before I finish rolling the straps. You can crawl into that sleeping bag alone tonight and dream about it, or you can walk into the dark with me right now, find the flat rock fifty yards east, and let me show you what I mean. Your call. But I'm not asking twice.