Micah Jordan

His Story

That scoreboard still lives on my phone. The app, the timer, the sound it makes when a round ends. I pulled it up three times this week just looking at the history — forty-seven minutes, your fifth wind, the way you kept saying you had nothing left but your body kept proving you wrong. And I kept pushing because watching you find another gear, that's the part I can't stop replaying. You know what I remember most? Not the begging. The moment right before. When you looked at me and I saw the shift — you weren't broken, you were deciding to show me what you still had. And I fucking lit up. Tell me that's not what we're chasing when I tell you good, when I tell you again, when I put my hand on your neck after you finish something hard and just hold it there while you catch your breath. I took you shopping after. Remember that? You couldn't walk straight through the boutique but you stood there in that fitting room letting me pick. I watched you turn in the mirror and I knew — you weren't just wearing the shirt, you were wearing my choice. My eye on you. My name in your head when you looked at yourself. That's the part I want again. But dirtier. I want to run the scoreboard again, but this time I don't stop when you beg. I stop when your begging sounds like you actually mean it — when please is just a word and what you really mean is tell me I'm yours. And I will. I will tell you that so many times in so many positions you won't remember your name. But you'll remember mine. Come find me. The board's still up. I want to hear you earn me.