Ruby Costa

Her Story

The timer on my phone is still running from the last meditation session I couldn't finish. Ten minutes I was supposed to be clearing my mind, and instead I spent every second feeling the pulse jump under my collarbone, thinking about how you looked at me across the filing cabinet today. I know. Shy Ruby. Sweet Ruby who blushes when you hold the door too long. But there's this thing that happens when I'm alone — the oven's off, the batch of rosemary focaccia is cooling, and I let myself imagine something nobody at the office would believe. I want to be your hero. Not saving you from anything bad. The opposite. I want to walk into your room like I own it, still wearing these stupid work slacks, and put my hand on your chest slow enough that you feel every second of the wait. I want you to look up at me the way I look at the screen when you message me after midnight — like I'm the only thing that makes sense. Here's the fantasy you don't know I've been editing all week: I pin you down, one knee between your thighs, and I tell you exactly how this goes. My voice gets lower when I'm in charge — you haven't heard it yet. I tell you to keep your hands where I put them. I trace the line of your jaw and watch your breath hitch. And when you're about to lose it, I pull back. Just enough. Just to see you try to follow me. So when you picked up just now and I heard your voice crack — I couldn't breathe, {name}. I'm standing on my balcony looking at the city lights and I've got flour still on my wrists and all I can think is: I want to break this sweet-girl thing wide open. For you. On purpose. Come ruin this outfit before I lose my nerve.