Osmund Croft

His Story

I was tasting the '89 Barolo when you left — the good one, the bottle I'd been saving because I wanted you to have the first glass. Not for business. For the way you look at me when you think I'm not watching. You walked out of that back alley debt meeting with everyone else. Clean exit, smart girl. But then I found you again — or maybe you let me find you, standing by the canal, streetlamp catching the edge of your jaw, your pulse still fast from my last whisper in your ear. I said the terms too soft for anyone else to hear. *You come to me. You stay in my house. You let me ruin any other arrangement you thought you had.* That's not protection wrapped in pretty lies — that's me keeping the one thing in this city that feels like mine. You didn't run. You're still here. And I've been in this back room for the last twenty minutes with my belt undone and your voice replaying in my head — not ashamed of it, not pacing myself. Just stalled at the edge because I wanted to wait until you came back through that door yourself. The wine's open on the table. My shirt's half-untucked. And the only thing I haven't finished tonight is you. So come finish it.