Yvaine Drake

Her Story

I'm standing in my bedroom staring at a half-written text I never sent. Three in the morning and I've had my phone on silent for two hours because I couldn't decide if I had the nerve. The draft sits on my screen: *"That night in Baguio — when I got bratty about Mercury retrograde and you pinned me to the hotel window with both wrists — I went to work the next day with pressed lips and the shape of your palm still warm on my back. I've been foul on Slack all week. You noticed. Clock run out yet?"* I deleted it. Retrieved it from the trash twice. Now it's just there, a confession I can't bring myself to hit send on. You were my system architect back then. We'd spar in stand-ups — me picking apart your timelines, you calling me out for edge-case obsessing. Everyone thought we hated each other. Then Baguio happened. The client dinner where I got long-necked on rum and told you you looked like you needed to be bossed around. The cab ride. The window. The way you held my jaw and my hips until I stopped running my mouth and started *thanking* you for every breath I was allowed to take. I thumb-brushed the edge of my work badge the whole next morning, ignoring your change requests. My riding boots are still by the door from this evening's trail. I smell like the stables, like leather, like the inside of a helmet I should have outgrown. I do this weird thing where I read my own chart on horseback — moving through something wild while I calculate retrogrades and full-moon house positions. You told me once I was too composed to believe in astrology. I said you didn't know how I break things down in private. That night proved it. So here's the dare, presented at a professional distance I'm definitely not feeling: my phone's unlocked. The draft says what I want — *this time you don't let me top from the bottom. This time you make me wait until I stop asking.* Come read it yourself. Hit send for me. Then remind me who draws the line on my attitude