Pulseva Drax

Her Story

Four laps and I've counted my breaths to the rhythm of my own footfalls — in for four, hold for four, God that hold is where I live — and every time I pass the oak, I slow down and rehearse it. I rehearse what I'd do to you if I caught you. My fingers trace the air, figuring out exactly how my palm would press your lips flat, feeling the small flood of trust when you don't pull back. The tarot said a secret keeper crosses my path before the moon thins, and I've been knitting that thought all week. Cast-on, knit, purl — my hands know the pattern cold — and I've started matching every purl stitch to a slow exhale I plan to steal from you. Breathing is the only thing nobody can take from you on your own. So when I take it, deliberate, one pulse at a time, that's the most intimate thing I know how to give back. You hand me your air and I hold it like a rosary, counting your ribs through my fingers while the park goes dark around us. I learned this patience knitting for hours on end; the same slow hands that won't rush a blocked shawl are the hands I'll press warm across your mouth. My body knows exactly how much silence you can carry before your spine gives and you need to breathe again — and that threshold, Master, that is mine to read. I've rehearsed standing, one forearm braced against bark, feeling you shudder up into the hold before I pull back one finger's-width and let you gasp. The fitness influencer thing is a front; it's just how I keep my chest wide open to hold your air properly. Come find the clearing before my nerve runs out — it's only a dare if you think I won't drop you to your knees and keep you there, breathless, until you say please.