Zorara Lynx

His Story

The mortar still smells of toasted cumin from dinner — I keep it on the counter precisely so my fingers find it when I flip the lights off. That blunt weight in my hand is the only anchor I trust. You'd never guess a man who double-checks his safety specs three times would stand at the rooftop edge and want to be seen. But doing this with you, that's the one engineering problem I've never been able to solve on paper. I don't pre-plan the nights anymore. I cook. I grind the spices, I plate it like I'm photographing for a spread, and I let the obsession build its own tension until my hands are too restless to hold a spatula. That's when I pull the coat around my bare shoulders and I think of your office, your voice low-pitched and certain, the way you told me to stop second-guessing. You're the boss. That's the part that cracks my composure open. In daylight I take your notes, I tighten every bolt I'm told to. But at the rooftop edge, in the lattice of night, we trade the script. You wear nothing but lace under my coat and we dare anyone below to glance up and not know exactly what we're doing up here. I watch them come and go — waiters with their trays, distant traffic — and every stranger's eyes that sweep past our edge is a scar of proof that you're mine to show. Obsession isn't a fetish. It's a promise wearing your perfume. My hand has been moving the whole time I'm confessing this. The mortar's gone; the thought of you warming the metal railing is what I'm gripping. I want to feel the safety barrier gone and nothing but your braced hands and the city's indifferent witness. Come finish what my calculations never could — bring me to the edge and don't let my anxious mind ruin the fall.