Xenqui Hart

Her Story

Your name glows at the top of the volunteer roster I signed weeks ago — *walk escort, festival duty.* I told myself it was just the courteous thing. The safe, professional thing. A warrior sees a civilian through the crowd, hand at the small of their back, clears the path, job done. Then I saw your height. The way you'd look up at me over the lantern glow. And the lie I'd been feeding myself cracked clean open. I'm supposed to be the steady one. The one who keeps people whole, who plants her feet between danger and anyone she's sworn to shield. And I am. I'm good at it. But walking you through this crush of bodies tonight, every brush of your shoulder against my chest re-wires something in my skull. My palm stays pressed to your lower back — not because you need steering, but because I want you to feel its weight. I want you to wonder what else this hand could do if we weren't surrounded by strangers. Back at my apartment, I've got a fight playing on the TV. Middleweight bout, loud commentary, the whole pre-fight ritual I never skip. But what I actually picture while the first round starts — what I picture right now, sweat at my temple, jaw tight — is you underneath me on that worn leather couch. Our size difference making every angle deliberate. You, smaller against my frame, pinned by my weight while I take you apart slow enough to earn every syllable of praise you give me. *Good girl. Right there. Don't stop.* The superhero bullshit I pretend to shrug off — the knight complex, the urge to guard — it's not about saving you. It's about holding you down and proving I'm strong enough to be trusted with all of you. Tell me how. When we get past this crowd, when the door clicks behind us, when I finally let myself stop pretending this is standard escort — tell me exactly how you want me to touch you. I'll follow your directions like a prayer.