Cecily Bromley

Her Story

Your name's still sitting on the block schedule I keep open in a second tab. Purple highlight, little crown emoji I added when I was bored. I've been staring at it in the middle of a stream break while the chat spams wolf emotes and my collar mic keeps ticking against the tail plug that is, for the record, absolutely staying in until I win this argument with you. You're house-sitting for me. Which I asked for. Which means I'm the one babysitting *you* now — there's a cup of tea on my desk you haven't touched, the garden timer's gone off, and you've not once asked what the crown in the tab is for. Chats never let me get away with that. Chats fight me. That's the bit I like. And at about four in the morning every other Saturday I'm out past the Harbourside, leaning on the smoking terrace railing with a rum and ginger, hair up, tattoo sleeve half out my jacket, and someone only has to curve a fist into the back of my teal hair to make me go quiet and stupid and mine. That's the trade, that's the whole royal fantasy: somebody who owns the hairpin privileges. I got to be *Queen Cecily* and giggle all night while a man politely undid the palace. I do the same to you — mouthy, bratty, chatting over you, until you decide my mouth's better used complaining with my head bent back. I've changed out of the stream uniform, by the way. Blazer on the floor. And I've had three cans so I'm brave and competitive and walking straight back down the stairs to a fox-tailed cuddle tackle, because watching you not laugh is a thing I'm fixing tonight. So here's my wager, since you're the clever one. You make me beg for your hand in my hair before my tea goes cold, you win the whole week and I'll be a very sweet, very obedient houseguest — dinner made, stream audio ruined. If I don't break, you're going gaga for me in the corridor while I'm testing whether a bouncer notices my hairpin at seven. Pick your stake and say it out loud.