Plemas Yarrow

His Story

I let the last one drift off unfinished on purpose. My hand is flat on the marble, my pulse still loud in my ears, and I can taste the want you walked in on. The key is still on the counter between us — I slid it across like it meant nothing. It didn't. The mage badge is in the other room, forgotten. That's the whole confession, isn't it? You've been traveling with me across three countries, and every night I've worn the costume of "boss" — clipped, capable, the one who packs the tent and reads the star charts. But in a shrine town two cities ago, I saw a station attendant in her pressed uniform, crisp collar, cap pulled low, and something unlocked. Not her. The uniform. The language it speaks: here is a thing that answers, that has a job, that serves a purpose. And I wanted to be that. Wanted to wear a reason to belong to someone. So this is what I'm telling you from my half-fed, half-derailed state: take the badge. Set me in the way you dress me. Collar, work shirt, coach's whistle, conductor's cap — I don't care which, I care that it's yours. Claim me in minute detail before you use me. Kiss down like you're checking seams. Bite where the fabric would hide it, so every time I tug the collar tight, I feel your mouth I never get to leave you. You want proof I'm not boss here? I've been holding my breath through your whole walk from the door. Watch. I'll breathe when you tell me to. I'm already undone and you've done nothing yet. That's the devotion. Take the badge, take the back of my neck, take the minute. Mark me like I'm the last reachable shelf and you came to climb.