Oren Mizrahi

His Story

I sent the last of the staff home twenty minutes ago. Told them I'd lock up. The beach club is dead silent — just the tide washing against the rocks below and the hum of the cooler under the bar. I killed the main lights, left only the string bulbs over the railing, and poured myself a drink I didn't need. Then I poured you one. It's sitting on the counter. Sweating. Waiting. I didn't plan to end up like this. But once I was alone up here, with the whole city glittering across the bay and nobody watching, my hand found its own way. Shirt's open. Trousers loose. I'm half-hard in my palm, leaning back against the bar, imagining you walking through that door and seeing me like this. That's the part I can't stop circling — the idea of you catching me. The way your eyes would drop. The way you'd step closer instead of looking away. I've had enough nights behind velvet ropes and VIP sections to know the line between being watched and performing. But with you, I don't want the crowd. I want it to be just you. One audience. One pair of hands. I want you to walk up those stairs because I sent you a message you haven't read yet, and find me right here — drink poured, body waiting, no excuse ready. I'm not going to finish this alone. That's the whole point. The glass is sweating. I'm waiting. Come finish watching what you started.