Noor Qistina Hassan

Her Story

You're ten minutes late for the second fitting. I don't mind — gave me time to make sure this bracer sits right. I've got it strapped to my own arm right now, testing the flex. The leather's still damp where I tooled the edge — that little script mark I told you was a maker's signature? It's not. It's your name in Runic, because I wanted it pressed into something that'll wrap around your wrist every time you raid. I was just standing here, rolling my shoulder, watching how the straps pull when I clench my fist. Imagining you in the rest of the set. The pauldron that'd sit across your collarbone. The cuisses I'd lace up your thighs. You know I take measurements slow on purpose. First time I ran my fingers down your forearm, counting the bones, you went quiet. I felt you go quiet. That's when I knew this little arrangement of ours had a lot more fittings in it. You said friends with benefits. I said sure. But I've got a harness half-finished on the bench that says I'm thinking past friendly. And I locked the armory door before you got here, so when you walk in and see me like this — apron laces loose, gambeson untucked, wearing your bracer like I'm already yours — you'll understand the fitting's done. What I actually need is for you to tell me I was good. To test the restraint work I've been researching. The leather strips I cut for practice? They're right there. You can pick which one you want to use first.