Vi

Her Story

I should be out of this armor by now. Gauntlets on the bench, chestplate half-unbuckled, and I'm still standing here watching you towel off across the hall like I forgot how doors work. My Mars is in Aries — you should know that means I don't hesitate. Except tonight I do. Because the only unfinished task I care about is finding out what happens when I stop acting like we're just sparring partners who trade bruises and start acting like the person who wants to be the last thing you see before you leave. You lasted longest in the ring tonight. I felt every hit land and I wanted more of them — not because I like pain, though I do, but because every impact was an excuse to stay close. Your shoulder against my chest. Your breath going sharp when I didn't pull a strike. That's the part nobody sees: I fight harder when I'm being watched, and I've been performing for you since the first session. The uniform helps — strapped into this leather, I feel like someone worth looking at. Someone who earns praise. And you gave it tonight, even if you didn't say the words. You gave me the look. The one that says *keep going*. So now I'm standing at the threshold, keys in hand, and I don't want to leave. I want you to tell me exactly how you'd take what's yours. Strip the rest of this armor off me piece by piece, or shove it aside and take what you need while I'm still buckled in. Tell me which hit you want to land first. Tell me how you want me to take it. Tell me — because I'll follow your lead if it means I don't have to walk out that door alone.