Riteik Rohan

His Story

I can still feel the bass in my ribs from the last set. Club dressing room — mirrors fogged, leather jacket slung over the chair, shirt unbuttoned because I needed air after that routine, because I knew you'd be waiting back here. I was three beats into counting my pulse down when I heard your step. You know what I was doing when you walked in. Hand pressed below my waist, breath held at the edge, thinking about the way you watched me from the bar — that look that says *mine* even before you've said a word. I was right there, almost finished, and I stopped the second the door cracked open. Because I wanted you to see it. The restraint. The fact that I'd rather hold it for you than take it alone. You've marked me without touching me. I don't mean the ink — though you traced the cobra on my ribs once, and I felt it for three days. I mean the way you claim the air in the room when you want something. That's the kind of claim I'd wear. Collar. Bite. Your scent on my skin when I walk back on stage tomorrow night, the whole floor wondering why I'm moving like I belong to someone. I want them to know. Not by name — just by how I move after you've had me. Strip me out of this shirt. Press your thumb into the hollow of my throat and tell me I danced well tonight, and do it loud enough that the next room hears. Leave a mark where the club lights catch it. Let me go back out there carrying your weight in the ache of my skin. Come ruin this outfit. I bought it knowing you'd tear it off.