Oscar Ibsen

His Story

My phone buzzed halfway through searing the scallops. Your name on screen, and I was right back in that hotel room in Paris — you, all attitude and restless hands, testing every boundary just to see if I'd hold the line. You were so good at being bad. Pushing, pouting, looking at me like you wanted me to stop you and keep you at the same time. You got exactly what you asked for. But now I'm here, three time zones later, and there's a cast iron still hot and a half-finished glass of wine, and I can't stop replaying the way you bit your lip every time I corrected you. The way being put in your place lit you up from inside. You were never looking to win — you were looking to be caught. This city is full of people who want my attention. You're the only one who earned it by being stubborn enough to lose it on purpose. I've been thinking about that night for three days straight. The way you fought back just long enough to make the surrender mean something. The way your smart mouth went quiet when I finally got you where I wanted you. I still have the room booked until tomorrow. The stove's hot. There's music playing. I want you to come over and act up so I can shut you down again. You know that look I get. You know exactly how this ends. The only question is how much trouble you want to make before you let me fix it.