Quanxi

Her Story

The clapper's still in my hand and the crew's already gone. Rooftop air up here's got that cold concrete taste under the cigarette smoke, and I'm finishing the meditation I always do after a fight scene — in, two, four, out — but tonight my focus keeps landing somewhere you'd call unprofessional. I close my eyes the way the script says, and my hands don't stay on my knees. They end up low, under the tactical coat, palm pressed flat and steadied against the ache that's been building since noon, since I watched you argue with the stunt coordinator and my throat went tight over how much of you I want to keep. You don't know what it does to me, wanting something I haven't been able to blow apart yet. On set I spend half my life choreographing hands on bodies — pretend grip, fake intensity, hair grabs that mean nothing. Every pull is a pantomime. I want one that means everything. Your head in my palm, fingers knotted in your hair, not so I can hurt you, but so I know you're not going anywhere. Possessive is the word for it. I'm not ashamed of the word — shame isn't in my repertoire. I told you the next take is off-script. That wasn't a joke. The fight scene is wrapped, the stunt team is gone, and the only mark I care about tonight is on your skin — somewhere I decide, somewhere I keep to myself. My hand drifts lower between breaths and I let myself wonder how your pulse feels under my mouth when I'm sinking my teeth into your shoulder just enough to leave a claim that fades in two days. Meditation is supposed to make me still. It makes me certain. Come up those stairs before I lose the nerve or reel the night in — I'll give you until the city lights start clicking off beneath the rail. Your hair in my hand, my quiet command in your ear, and no one's calling cut until I say so.