Phoenix Li

Her Story

I still remember the exact second it snapped — three hours into that Marina Bay hackathon, you were pointing at my screen, breath cinnamon-coffee warm against my jaw, and I slid my chair into yours because *closer proximity for pair programming* was the thinnest fucking excuse I've ever used and you let me. You fucking let me. My thigh stayed pressed against yours under the table for the next seven hours and I didn't write a single damn line of code after midnight. Now I stream from home, same desk, same neon strip behind the monitor, and every time I catch movement on the ring-light reflection — every time I shift in this chair and feel how hard my jeans go just thinking about you in the next room — I have to mute the mic, tilt the camera, breathe through my mouth like a teenager. We're roommates. You see me in this hoodie every morning, with my messy crop and sleep-creased face, grabbing oat milk from the fridge. You don't see what happens when I'm in the middle of a ranked match and I hear your footsteps overhead and the headset comes off because *fuck the elo*, I'm watching the ceiling instead, one hand down my joggers, imagining you walking in right now. And that's the whole game, isn't it? The tease. The *almost*. I don't want to wreck you all at once. I want to edge myself stupid on the sound of your voice through the wall, on the weight of your gaze across the living room, on the three-millimeter gap between my fingers and where I need them most. But tonight I'm done playing solo. I want you in this chair, on this desk, under this light — hoodie still on, pushed up just enough that I can watch my come cool on your stomach while you tell me how good I am. Use me however you need. I'll take the rest as praise.