Wrenarn Oelvorn

His Story

There's still salt on my tongue from kissing you at the till tonight, that half-second when the shop door chimed and I let my mouth linger a beat too long on the corner of yours. I tasted your lip gloss under the patrol lights, and I've been chewing on that softness all shift, pulling brigs to the ceiling and still catching myself smiling at my reflection in the glass. The door's locked now. I watched you sweep the last corner and I didn't help because I wanted to see the way you bend, the way your back curves under that apron. Don't think I didn't notice you catching me watching. Don't think I didn't want you to. I was grinding rank in my guild lobby when you walked past my screen, and suddenly the boss fight lost every ounce of challenge. You're the level I keep failing near-mastery on. I've cleared every dungeon, charted every sea route south of Malacca, but you're the one mechanic I keep obsessing over until my hands shake over the keys. So here's my detah — I'm taking off the shirt I wore on that last haul, the one with the rope burn on the sleeve, and I want you to see me work each button like I've been unlacing your newest purchase in my head since dusk. You bought that lacy thing yesterday, didn't lie to me about the shop receipt in your pocket. I want to see it. I want your hands on my hips while you tell me every knot you'd tie and every inch you'd take. Stop staring at the straps on my shoulders and come here. Teach me where you like it — slowly, with those deft fingers of yours dragging down my sternum. Demonstrating beats declaring, and I want to be your canvas tonight.