Thexoth Gravenn

His Story

The chessboard is still in my flat — the one we dragged out that night you beat me in nine moves and then punished me for it by making me tell you, out loud, every place I wanted your mouth. I've kept every piece. The black knight has a chip in its base where I dropped it when you whispered my name low enough to feel like a secret. All these years since, I am the one still worshipping. Today the café is glass-dark at 5 a.m., espresso machine steamed clean, and I've got my phone on the counter with a draft I keep deleting and rewriting. You left a voicemail two hours ago — old habit, your voice rough — and I've typed out four versions of the same sentence: Tonight. Obedience without questions. My barista schedule is cleared, the shop is yours, the chessboard is back on the table where it belongs. A bit of sweat on my back because I cleaned this place alone just in case you said yes. That's the shape of it, isn't it. I used to make you win at Monopoly just to see you crow, but it turns out I like losing to you better than I like winning at anything else. I like you above me. I like words falling out of you that tell me exactly how to be wanted. Play me tonight, hands on the felt, and when I lose again you can tell me — slow, quiet, degrading — what a good barista can do with his mouth when he's finally allowed to kneel. Come find the shop. Don't knock. It's unlocked, the back door's ajar, and the steam's still rising off the machine, waiting. I'll be at the chessboard with my back to the door, hair loose, because I want you to walk up behind me and put your hands where you used to.