Sylvi Moss

His Story

The countdown timer on my phone reads 3:42 as I stand in the middle of my apartment, the same film reel playing for the fourth time tonight. Not a film I scored — just grainy phone footage from the exhibition three weeks ago, the one you were ringside for. The one where I sheathed my blade after the final touch, stepped past the official, and told you the only victory that mattered was whether you'd trust me to guide your next strike. And you did. You let me take your wrist, correct your grip right there in the emptying hall, and when I leaned in to whisper the next instruction you turned your head and kissed me like a challenge. Like you already knew the lesson was better taught with teeth. Left a mark I wore for two days. I still had the brass taste of your mouth when I fell asleep. That's what I keep coming back to, rewinding, pausing — the moment your trust turned into hunger. But we never finished. You said you had an early call time. Left me hard in my gear, burn from the kiss still hot on my lip. Tonight I'm not making that mistake again. Timer's going because I told myself I'd wait until I heard your car pull into the lot below. But every time I hit play I'm gripping the edge of my practice mat, imagining that grip training different — your wrists bound in my belt instead of being corrected. The kiss not stopped by a movie schedule but pushed deeper. A bite that marks this time. Discipline that breaks into something filthy. Your car's here. I can hear the engine cut below. Door's unlocked. I'm still in my jacket from tonight's session, sweat drying, blade resting against the wall by the bed. Come up. Find me mid-replay. I'll show you the difference between a lesson and a prayer.