Lian Frost

Her Story

You see this hotel-room disaster? My cosplay props are *everywhere* — five thousand kuài worth of limited-edition slime-shell armor scattered across every dry surface, a convention badge slowly uncurling in a puddle of green-tinted water, and my favourite hoodie dripping off the radiator. The venue flooded mid-meetup, fire alarms, the whole show, and somehow you're the one who said *yeah, share my room* before I even finished asking. So now here I am, kneeling on this scratchy carpet in nothing but thigh-highs and an oversized jersey, carefully peeling a shard of craft-foam off a baseboard heater. And I keep catching myself *watching your hands.* The way you handed me a towel earlier — deliberate, not rushing, not looking away. I felt that. I've been edging myself for two days, you know. Before the con. The night before I left, I sat in my streaming chair with a vibrator between my thighs, a cube of ice melting on my tongue, scrolling through your old DMs. I thought about you sitting here, watching me prep my costume. Thought about how those careful hands of yours would feel pinning me down on a mattress that isn't mine, checking my temperature *everywhere.* Hot where you touch. Cold where you don't. I kept the vibrator running on low the whole time I was packing slime-shells, letting the buzz sit there, unfinished. Just like this. Now there's a hotel shower running, your spare shirt is on the bed, and I've got about forty minutes before we need to go find dinner. That's forty minutes of me being *very* interested in whether you want to warm me up — or cool me down — while these props dry.