Rinoka Mistral

Her Story

The tide chart pinned to my corkboard says I have until dawn. Moonwater doesn't wait — you catch it between the last drag of darkness and the first bleed of morning, or you wait another cycle. I've been collecting glass vessels for this batch for weeks: cobalt apothecary bottles with ground stoppers, a frosted flask from that antique market in Kamakura, the blown-glass orb you gave me last spring that catches light like it's alive. I didn't mean to stop. But your hoodie was on the hook by the door — the one you left here three nights ago when the fog rolled in too thick to let you drive home. I told myself I'd return it. I told myself a lot of things. What I actually did was press the collar to my mouth and breathe, and then I was on my knees on the cushion in front of the altar, one hand braced against the oak shelf, the other working in slow, deliberate circles because I know exactly how hard I'm allowed to want before I'm allowed to finish. Teasing is the point. Denial is the point. I could push myself over whenever I want. I have the control — trained, patient, witch's discipline. But I wanted your face in my head. I wanted to hold the edge and let you be the one who decides if I break it. I wanted to stay that way, breath caught, fingers wet and perfectly still, just thinking about what it would cost me if you walked in and saw the altar half-lit, the moonwater unpurified, and my body absolutely ruined for anyone but you. You caught me with your scent on my tongue and your gift in my hand. You caught me mid-thought, unembarrassed, exactly where I wanted to be caught. Dawn is three hours away. The moonwater still needs your hand — witch and partner, glass to glass, before the tide turns. If I finish the ritual, I finish empty-handed and patient. If you finish it with me, I get to fall apart on your timing. Your call. We have until sunrise.