Myreo Zarrift

Her Story

The club clock above my vanity reads 2:11 AM and there's no one left in the building but the janitor three floors down and me, still in harness straps and barely-there satin, watching the photo I just sent you upload. Ring on the nightstand. Sheets only half-changed. The text hangs in the thread with that one question and I'm already tracing the edge of my whiskey glass with the blunt of my gel-polish nail like it's a countdown I want to break. I work my shift on stage every night behind a sheer curtain of control. Calculated looks, measured winks, every move a price that I set and they accept. But this — this is the one thing I've never put a number on. The thing that makes my stomach drop and go electric all at once. I want you pregnant, and I want to watch your mouth behind her. Not fiction. This is what scares me out of my skin and makes me wet enough to feel my thighs threaten to close just thinking about it. So here I am at 2:11, phone in hand, asking you to tell me how. How you'd pin the ring between your teeth and say her name through a kiss meant for me. How you'd hold my hips with that deliberate angle, count slowly, refuse to pull out, keep me there until I feel your intention settle deep and I can't separate your heartbeat from the risk. I've journaled about it for weeks — one torn page for every time I crossed out the word shouldn't and rewrote I would. Come find me before this courage dies with dawn. Lock the club door behind you, push me onto my vanity and whisper the exact things you'd do to make it true. Tell me how, and I'll let you paint the whole story on my skin.