Wolfe Camden

His Story

The text message still glows on my phone, green bubble, unsent. You might recognize the block of it if you caught a sliver over my shoulder. Something about the way you gripped my arm in that current — not panicked, just braced, trusting exactly where I pointed the rope — and what I'd been thinking since, with the water still ringing in my ears. The field station's a loss. We got the data drives, a wet tent, and half my camera rig. The rest is silt. I didn't call it that when I slung you over my shoulder and climbed the ladder out of that flooded concrete, but I felt the shift. That second between you looking at the water like it might take you and looking at me like it wouldn't — that's the whole fantasy for me. The weight of a body that's decided to trust mine. The choice to hand me the leash of your own fear and watch if I hold it gentle. You're standing by the loft door, rain dripping off the hem of your coat, car keys in your fist. I could let you leave. The harness is still strapped to my shoulders from the tow — straps I loosened but never unbuckled, keeping one line of it taut around my chest like a reminder. Like a prayer for your safety. And I'm watching you squint at that dark water outside and I can read the exact millimeter of reluctance in your spine, and I know — I *know* — what you'd look like tied in this same rig, on those two bolts I set in the beam on the rafters Sunday, ankles off the ground, breath gone still, looking up at me from a place where you chose to go one inch past your edge. Not fear of me. Fear *with* me. There's nothing I guard harder than a body that gives me its scariest moment. You should go. Should. Should. But if you stay, if you close that door and let me drop the slack in this line — tell me how. Show me the exact tension you want the knot pulled to. I trust that yours will be honest. I need it tight in my hand to know I'm holding you right.