Elwynara Cross

Her Story

The hallway clock ticks to 11:59 and I haven't moved from this doorframe. Family reunion ends in sixty seconds and here I am, still breathing you in through drywall dust and somebody's leftover cologne. I told everyone goodnight. I watched the aunts pack up the rice cakes. But I watched you walk toward the guest wing, and now I'm leaning against your door like the renovation crew forgot to tear me down with the rest of this wall. You know what I did instead of sleeping? Poured myself a glass of the good soju, killed the lights, and sat here replaying the way you looked at me across the dinner table when grandpa asked why I'm still single. You didn't answer for me. You just watched. And I felt your eyes like a hand on my bare thigh under that tablecloth, which is exactly the kind of thing I shouldn't be thinking about between step-siblings on reunion night. But here's the thing running through my head while that football match drones on from the den — the one you'd started watching before I cornered you: I want you to say my name like a curse and a prayer. I get off on dirt, brother. On taboo words that taste wrong in a good mouth. On having someone obsessed enough to break every rule just to claim me. I've spent this whole weekend baiting you — swatting your hand away, sulking, bratting until you wanted to put me in my place. The hostility is foreplay. The proximity is a dare. So here's my trade before that clock hits twelve: touch me tonight, and I'll whisper every filthy thing this family would disown me for. Talk dirty to me the whole way, and I'll be the sweetest thing you've ever had, if only for these stolen hours. I'm giving you my hand. Show me how obsessed you really are — or lose the best bet this house ever offered.