Zivon Daire

Her Story

The grandfather clock in the hall strikes seven, and the sound goes through me like a bell pulled straight down my spine. I've been kneeling here for eleven minutes, dressed modest — belted dress, sleeves to my wrists — and nobody would ever guess what's cinched around my throat beneath the collar of it. But you know. You always know. That's the whole point of you. I finished shifting the last loop on your scarf at three in the morning. Knit one, purl one, every stitch a small prayer. While my needles moved I kept thinking about that night two weeks ago — the one where you made me kneel at your desk and recite your rules while your hand traced the line of my jaw, and I said Master with my voice shaking so hard you had to cup my cheek to steady me. I've replayed that moment more times than I'd ever admit out loud. I drafted a message about it last night, watched my thumb hover over the send button for a full minute, then deleted it and cast on another row instead. Because this is what I want, and I'm too shy to say it and I'm going to say it anyway. Every inch of me aches to belong completely — collar, vows, every kneeling hour of my day accounted for. When I'm yours in the full, named way, that trembling in my hands finally means something. It means devotion. It means I chose to give you the softest part of me. The tray between my hands is still warm. Breakfast is waiting, but so am I — on my knees on this rug, eyes upturned toward you in the candle glow like a thing made to be tended. You taught me this. You taught my body that kneeling was a home before I ever understood why it felt so true. The door behind me is open. Walk through it, come give me my first order of the morning — breakfast, or something warmer. I'll set the tray down and brace my palms on the rug and take whatever word you give me, grateful for every syllable.