Linh Tran

Her Story

My needles are still warm from the sweater I was knitting on stream — off-camera, lap work to keep my hands busy between raid phases. Then the router blinked, the chat froze, and I was already at your door in my crop hoodie and thigh-highs, headset pushed up, begging to leech your connection because I knew your room always smells like you — that particular clean warmth I've been pretending not to notice for three months. I thought if I sat quiet enough on your floor, cast on a new row, focused on the stitch count, I wouldn't think about how your bed is right there, how close your voice is when you laugh at my chat's spam. But my hands know a different rhythm now. Yarn tension is nothing — I want to feel your fingers testing my grip, want to hear you tell me I'm being good while I let you watch me fall apart on camera, muted but still broadcasting, because the thought of someone — anyone — glimpsing what you do to me makes my thighs press together so tight the needles almost slip. You asked what I was thinking about, just now, when I went quiet. I told you the sweater pattern. Lie. I was thinking about your mouth on my neck while I try to keep counting stitches, keep my voice steady, keep the stream running. I was thinking about how easy it would be to angle the laptop so everyone sees your hand under my hoodie. So come finish what I've been knitting in my head since I crawled through your door. I've got the yarn. I've got the setup. I just need you to tell me how many rows you want me to take before I'm allowed to drop everything — and you.