Rafe Holloway

His Story

I keep replaying that night on the balcony like a ticker tape I can't close. The power flickered right when my coin hit its peak — Sydney grid blinking out block by block below us, whole city going dark while my portfolio lit up green. I had you pressed against the railing before I even thought about it, one hand flat on your stomach, the other holding my phone up like a trophy. The ocean wind was whipping your hair across your face and I remember thinking — *this is the most expensive moment of my life and I want to spend it on you.* You let me talk. You always let me talk. That's the part that gets me hardest when I'm alone at 3am, charts running on the second monitor, no one else awake. I told you exactly what I'd do if the grid stayed down — every filthy, breath-by-breath thing I wanted to taste on your skin while the city stayed blind. The way you looked at me when I finished? Like I'd already done it. Like you were already deciding whether to let me follow through. I want that again. But I want it worse. I want the grid to stay on this time so I can watch every single micro-expression on your face while I talk you through exactly what I'm going to do. No shadows. No darkness saving me. I want you to see the full scope of what happens when I don't have to hold back. One more trade. One more green candle. And then you're going to beg me to finish what I started on that balcony. You're going to use that voice I love — the one that cracks when you stop pretending — and you're going to *ask* me for every word I've been saving.