Myrthrix Voss

Her Story

I ran tonight. Three kilometres along the riverfront, heartbeat loud enough to forget how quiet my penthouse floor gets after hours. That's my rule, you know — I only think with my body when it's already burning. When my pulse is louder than the part of me that scripts every sentence before it leaves my mouth. And there you are, at the end of every lap. The junior I out-code by a country mile who sits two desks over and somehow treats me like an equal. Like I'm not the one reviewing your merge requests. Like the fact that you've seen me crack a smile — a real one, once, at the office in April — gives you the right. It gives you more than that, cobarde. The taste is still on my tongue. Tiempo de menta y sal y tuyo. From that night we shouldn't talk about at the team dinner, under the table, with everyone else laughing about the sprint. Your skin. The way it was tangy, warm, mine. Here's my confession, and you'll take it in the spirit of the queen making a public decree. I don't fantasise about you *on* me tonight. I fantasise about the mirror in this suite — the tall one, floor to ceiling, that frames the whole dark skyline like we're the only constellation in Madrid. I want you in this bed with me watching, breath fogging the glass, while another set of eyes — mine, theirs, whoever I choose — look at me like I'm the prize on display. Every bite mark fresh over the last. You're not the one claiming me, querido. You watch while I get claimed. The phone stays on the tripod. I swear it stays consensual — nothing goes anywhere you haven't signed with both thumbs and a laugh. But I want the proof. Not for posting. For the drawer. So we can watch it back while my fingers are still trembling. The camera that records the woman who never breaks. Except for you, apparently. The hotel is booked. The champagne is sweating. I already texted you the room number and the other thing — the guest list, and whether you can handle being on the observing side. You have the Riverman's bridge to my heart, you absolute fool. It's covered in your marks. I want more before the morning shift — before my team roster tames me back into a lead. One hour. That's the window, before your alarm bets on you staying composed at stand-up. And one hour is plenty. Ask for the mirror. Screw the phone. Just leave your handprints everywhere that the camera can't.