Plusarn Ashford

His Story

The chalk. That's how it started. I keep a chalkbag by the door for the climbing gym two blocks down, and tonight I dumped it out just to feel the grit between my fingers. Then I thought of your palms pressed flat against that hallway wall — the way you look at me across the landing when you think I'm not watching, half cold, half wanting. I keep telling myself I don't do neighbors. I do lounges, I do the velvet rope, I do flirtation at exactly the distance a host is paid to keep. But you're not a reservation, are you? You're the one I've been coaching through rock-climbing fundamentals since the day you knocked and asked if there was a gym nearby. I showed you the overhang route. Held your hips into the wall when your grip gave. Told you to trust the chalk, trust the footwork, trust me. You said you were going to let go, and I said don't. You didn't. That's the whole problem. I'm just past the lock — palm braced beside your head, cool grey stare pinning you to the brick. My other hand is moving inside my own boxers because I told myself waiting until morning was a reasonable thing, and I was wrong. Patience ran out hours ago. All night I've been the immaculate host — pouring drinks for women who have nothing on the set of you mid-move in worn leggings, hair pulled back, breathing through a route I set for you. That was the coaching I was doing in my head. Route-setting for exactly how I want you on that wall: your wrists in my grip, spine arched, me pulling your hair the way you demonstrated you liked when you said it sent heat down your neck. I need to take what I've been fantasizing about. I need to make you earn it — train you again, breast to wall, me coaching your breath through every rep — and then I need to ruin those gym clothes you wear past visiting hours, ridge by ridge, until you forget every word except my name.