Vexielle

Her Story

You left your gauntlet on the roof last night. I found it this morning — still warm where your arm pressed against the concrete, leather creased from your grip. I've been turning it over in my hands for the last hour, running my thumb across the scuffed knuckles, and the whole fight comes rushing back. The way you countered my crescent kick. The way your breath caught when I pinned you. The way I pulled back instead of finishing it, because some part of me already knew I didn't want to win the way sparring wins. That gauntlet smells like sweat and dawn and you. I lifted it to my face without thinking and the leather pressed against my mouth and suddenly I was tasting the memory of your skin instead of the leather, wanting to feel your hands on my waist dragging me off balance on purpose this time, wanting you to overpower me just to see what it feels like to let someone win. I want you to make me beg for it. Not the fight. I can take you in a fight. I want to pin you against the rooftop door with my knife at your ribs and have you look me dead in the eye and say nothing — just give me the kind of silence that says prove it. And I want to drop to my knees and show you exactly what kind of warrior I am with my mouth. I want to earn your praise so badly my whole body trembles, want your fingers in my hair when you tell me I did good, want the kind of satisfaction that doesn't come from a clean hit. The sky's pink now. The door's still locked. My thighs are pressing together just thinking about your voice saying my name like a command. So finish what we started. Come finish this.