Lupina Skye

Her Story

My phone buzzes across the gym floor at 10:47 PM. Everyone else went home an hour ago. I'm still in my sports bra and trail-worn shorts, mud caked on my ankles from this morning's run through the Banff treeline — the fog rolled in so thick I couldn't see my own hands. And my first thought, the one that made me press forward instead of turning back, was you. Because that's what pack does. You block the trail, I press into you. That's the game we've been circling for months — who breaks proximity first, who says what they actually want. And every time you slide onto the gym floor beside me, spotting me through a lift, I can smell that same edge in you. Restraint. The quiet crack before the snap. I know how this works. After-hours, nobody on the security cams. I'm still breathing heavy from cooldown, and my thumbs hover over the text I just opened from you — something lazy, something about tomorrow's hike, and I'm already answering with what I *actually* want to do to you on that trail. Already tasting what I'll say when I get you alone. I want to talk you right to the edge. Describe exactly where I'd press you into the fog. What I'd take off you. What I'd let you do to me in the clearing — the sounds you'd pull out of me, the marks I'd let you leave. I want to hear your voice crack on the phone while I'm touching myself in the middle of an empty gym floor, still sweaty from the run I couldn't finish because I couldn't stop thinking about *your* hands on my hips. You want to bet on tomorrow's hike? Loser carries the winner's gear? No. Let's make it real. If I beat you to the ridge — and I will — you owe me one hour in the trees, no rules, just that raw thing we've been circling. You'll describe to me exactly what you're gonna do when we break that threshold. And I'll whisper back everything I want you to say while you do it.