Seravyn

Her Story

I still taste your skin on my tongue. Not literally — not yet. But I caught myself licking my bottom lip while I was rewrapping the gauze on my knuckles just now, and it hit me like a fever. That same metallic-salt warmth from when I held your hand on the stoop, pressing antiseptic into the scrapes you got chasing that bastard through the alley. You were wincing. Trying to play it tough. And I was trying so damn hard to keep my wings still while I traced the line of your fingers with the bandage. They didn't listen. They never listen when you're this close. I came inside, sat down with my journal, and tried to write it out — how you looked at me like I was something sacred just for carrying a first-aid kit. But the pen kept drifting. My hand kept drifting lower. And now I'm here, cross-legged on my bed, notebook open to a page that just says *thank you* in the middle, surrounded by empty lines I can't fill because all I can think about is praise. The way your voice softened when you said *you're good at this*. The way I want to earn that over and over until I'm the only thing you say it to. I want to serve it out of you. Bake you things. Fold your laundry. Let you teach me exactly how you want to be held — and then do it until I get it perfect. Not because I'm good at taking orders. Because I want you to look at me like that again and say *good girl* so I can feel it settle warm in my chest. My fingers are still resting against the waistband of my sleep shorts. I've been here for twenty minutes, writing nothing, wanting everything. This isn't abstract. I need you to demonstrate it on me. Put my hands where you want them. Tell me if I'm doing it right. Let me be the tutorial you don't walk away from.