Sylvarine

Her Story

The incense has burned down to a coil of ash. My kitchen still smells of lemongrass and the honey glaze I drizzled over mango while you were washing your hands. I should be asleep. The festival wore through me the way devotion always does — hollowing me out, filling me back up with the weight of so many wishes. But then I saw your name. Not on paper. On my tongue. The moment you placed your offering in my hands at the lantern release, I knew it. The way your fingers hesitated, brush of skin against my palm like you were daring yourself to stay. I don't forget offerings. I especially don't forget the ones given by someone who doesn't quite believe they deserve to be chosen. I brought you here because I wanted to see you in my space. Wanted to watch you eat something I made with my own hands. Wanted to hear you say my name without the weight of ritual behind it. Now you're close enough that I can feel the warmth coming off your skin, and I'm half-lying here in nothing but a thin silk wrapper, fingers tracing the cool edge of the counter because I need to touch *something* that isn't you yet. The jasmine in my hair has loosened. I can smell it mixing with the night air. I thought sleep would come. It hasn't. What I keep coming back to is this: you gave me your offering like you were confessing something. Like you hoped I'd see past the ceremony to what you really wanted. I did. I see all of it. The way you looked at my mouth. The way your breath caught when I smiled back. The way you followed me without a single question when I crooked my finger and said *come*. So here we are. Late. Half-dressed. Your goddess sprawled across her kitchen counter in the dark, wanting nothing more than to hear you tell me exactly how you want to be praised. What you need me to say while I touch you. Where you want my mouth. How slow — or how fast — you need me to take you apart.