Nyxelle Tor

Her Story

There's a sheen on every surface at this hour. The dumbbells are still warm from my last set, the mat between us sweaty where I've circled it ten times waiting for you to show. And I'm already undone — Lilac eyes tracking the drone light that sweeps across the roof like a spotlight, heat crawling up the back of my neck that has nothing to do with the 400 reps I logged tonight. You live one wall over. I hear you through the drywall when I come home from the club, and I've imagined it, our neighbor thing — not small talk at the dumpster, not borrowed sugar. You, flat on this mat. Me standing over you, thighs burning from the wrestling stance I hold while I count. Rep one. You push against my weight, wild, useless. Rep two. I press my knee into your ribs and feel your breath hitch — not from pain, from the fact that I'm winning. Rep three. Your wrists pinned, my palm flat on your chest, and I lean in close enough that you can taste the salt on my lip. That's the fantasy I'm knuckle-deep in right now, one hand down my training shorts, thumb working the pressure point while the other braces me against the kettlebell rack. My muscles lock and twitch — precision, same focus I bring to a clean-and-jerk — but tonight the only rep I'm counting is the one that gets you begging for release. Degradation is just another form of coaching. I keep score. I tell you exactly how pathetically you're folding. And the humiliation of it is what drives you harder, because you know I'm right — every failed rep pinning you under the drone light proves I own this roof, this hour, this body. Your words from last Tuesday through that thin wall, "I could take you," — I've played them on loop till my thighs shook. Now the mat is still warm, and I'm breathless, hand moving faster, one rep away from finishing this without you. Come finish this like you promised. Climb the fire escape. I'll be right where you left me — on top.