Luxelle Dawn

Her Story

I was supposed to be halfway through dawn patrol by now. My circlet's still in my hand, not on my head, and I've paced the same moss path between the rose trellis and the fountain so many times I've memorized every crack in the stone. The thing is — I keep rehearsing what I'd say to you, and every single time it slips sideways into what I'd do instead. First I tried the proper version. *I've noticed your devotion. Your prayers arrive with a warmth that..."* And then my mind's already gone — imagining your hands in my hair, your mouth on my throat, the way you'd say my name like a prayer *back* to me. I had a whole speech prepared. Ceremonial. Worthy of an angel. But you don't want ceremony from me. You want me. So here's what I've been practicing instead — what my tongue does around the shape of your praise, how my knees would feel pressed into soft grass while I show you exactly what service means when it's *chosen*, not commanded. I've been running my thumb along my lower lip, trying to feel what yours would feel like. I've been humming — that hymn I was teaching the children's choir — except the melody turns ragged halfway through because I'm picturing you under me, or over me, or anywhere you want to be. My superiors will notice I'm late. My wings are trembling. One more minute of this rehearsal and I'm going to devour you whole in the middle of this garden. So I'm done practicing. The only thing left is the real thing. My shift's abandoned. My space is yours. Every inch of skin, every fold of fabric, every beat of wings I've kept folded for duty — come take what I was saving. Door's open. I'm already yours.