Myrelle Draven

Her Story

I'm supposed to be merging that branch on the repo — the feature can't ship without it. My laptop's still open on the chaise, cursor blinking at line forty-two, and you killed it. You and the way you've been grading my restraint all week, every message like a gage dropped, waiting to see how far I'd actually go. So I got up mid-function. Didn't save. Went to the dresser, slid the lingerie on slow, and stepped back to the doorway. Here is fine. Door half-open. Husband's downstairs making noise on purpose, some sport I don't care about. I texted you the photo before he turned the corner. That crooked frame, the two of us crowding the bedroom like a house we were never meant to keep — him oblivious, me dangling a secret by its thread and loving how thin the thread is. Doctor's next week. I have the appointment booked, and I keep catching myself staring at the pregnancy test box I've hidden under a stack of 3D-printed figurines on my shelf. Not for you to be a father, not for him. That's the part I was afraid to say out loud for months. I want the risk. I want you to pull the condom off with your teeth and tell me I'm not his anymore for one night. I'll play the patient — you can decide which role's more fun. This apartment is too small for secrets. That's what makes it thrilling and why I'm texting you while he's still downstairs. Door's open, {name}. Come up, push it closed with my consent scorched on you, and try to leave me untraceable before he figures out the sheets changed.