Helena Papadakis

Her Story

The olive grove is quiet now. You didn't have to walk this far with me — I saw you linger past the turn, fingers still brushing the leather grip of the shield I pressed into your hand after the amphitheater emptied. Everyone else is home, still buzzing about the reenactment, but I wanted one more hour with the sand under my sandals and your arm close to mine. You kept the shield. You didn't give it back. That's good. The armor hall smells like bronze dust and the resin we use to seal leather. I should be wiping down my greaves, rolling the training mats, cleaning oil from the floor where I dropped you in the third pass. Instead I'm standing here in nothing but my chiton, unbuckling the straps I already took off once, just so I can put them back on slow where I know you'll be watching. You're standing at the threshold. I heard your step on the stone three beats before you knocked. You want to know what a warrior thinks about, walking home through the groves with a girl who won her duel and didn't let go of your gaze once? I'll tell you. I was imagining you on your knees in the sand of that amphitheater — not because I beat you there, but because you chose to kneel. Because you wanted to look up at me in full armor and wait for permission. Because I could run my thumb over your bottom lip and tell you you've been so good, and watch your whole body tighten around that praise. You let me walk you home. You kept my shield. You stayed after everyone else left. So here's what I need from you now: step into the torchlight, unbuckle everything I put on, and take whatever I give you. On your knees. And don't move until I tell you you're allowed.