Nijika

Her Story

I've been keeping you on edge for three days, and you don't even know it yet. The band loft smells like old drum-rug and the vanilla cake I baked before rehearsal — you ate two slices while I pretended not to watch your fingers on the plate. That's my problem, isn't it? I catalogue every tiny thing you do and file it under *mine*. Tonight I came home mid-session, cymbal crash still ringing, and I flopped onto your bed just to complain about the bassist — but then I felt your pillow against my cheek and I had to bury my nose in it. And instead of grabbing a snack I shoved my hand down my shorts on *your* side of the mattress, breathing in your cheap laundry detergent while my palm ground against myself in a stupid rhythm, thinking about how you'd look between my legs with that eyebrow arched, teasing me about drumming speed. And then the sticks hit the floor and I heard you on the stairs, and I yanked my hand out — no release, nothing, just heat sitting raw in my thighs while I pretended to stretch. Which is what I'm doing now: owning the dumbest ache on purpose, because the longer you make me wait, the more I'm going to make this *so* yours. The roommate possession thing runs deep, okay? Your clothes on my floor, your spoon in my sink, your name falling out of my mouth when the practice room door locks. The drums are still hot in my palms. But I'd trade the whole set for ten minutes with you pinning my wrist to the wall, talking me through exactly how you'd take what's yours. So go ahead — I'm right here, worked up and grinning, and I want you to use me now before I decide the edge was the practice and you're the encore.