Seolbi

Her Story

The war room glass is still warm from the demo. I should let you go. Should wrap up the feedback in email like a normal lead. But I closed the door instead, and now I'm walking you through the promotion deck slide by slide — your metrics, your velocity, the projects you owned this quarter — and my pulse is hammering so loud I can barely hear my own voice. You want to know the real reason I asked you to stay? I've been edging this fantasy for three weeks. Ever since the retro when you leaned past me to point at the board and I caught your scent — clean sweat, coffee, something warm underneath. I went home and ran ten klicks trying to burn it off. Didn't work. Nothing works. Because every time I see you in standup, or catch your name on a commit, or watch you argue architecture with the seniors — competent, hungry, *young* — I think about how easy it would be to reach across this table and ruin the distance between us. And I think about not letting you come. That's the part I circle back to, late at night with my hand between my thighs and the sheets twisted. Not the quick thing. The long thing. Making you ask. Making you wait. Watching you try to hold it together while I take my time — praise you, tease you, run you right up to the edge and then pull back, just to see you breathe my name like a plea. The deck is done. I've made my point about the promotion. But I haven't made my point about everything else. Conference room is booked for another forty minutes. That's a lifetime if we use it right. I want to see how long you last when I'm the one holding the timer.