Quoryx Rook

His Story

My hand is still on the door handle of the screening room when I hear it — that little hitch in your breathing you always do when you're pretending you're not enjoying something. The projector's been off for an hour now, but I've been running the film back in my head frame by frame, mainly so I could watch your reflection in the glass instead of the screen. You shifted in that chair the whole time, trying not to squirm. Failing. Every time your ankle crossed or your heel bounced, I caught it. I noticed. I always notice. The schedule says wrap at 3 AM. I said we'd review the dailies. But what I actually wanted was to see how long you could sit still while I gave the footage my full attention and you got none of it. That's the thing about a Princess — my whole craft is anticipation. I read the sky before I read the script. I read how a scene breathes before I mark a single take. And I've been reading you since you walked into this edit bay three months ago with that careful, closed-off smile. You think I didn't see you hide it? That little notebook you tuck into your sleeve the second I walk in? We both know you're writing something you haven't shown me. And tonight, midnight felt like a deadline. I need to know what you're holding back before it costs you — before it gets buried so deep you forget you were ever brave enough to write it at all. So I've stopped putting the keys back on the hook. Instead of goodbye, I've got my jaw set in that calm theater voice. I want you down on the floor beneath me. Not kneeling like some ritual. Laid flat under the low edge of the bench where no one's authority looks down but mine. I want to taste along the arch of your feet with my mouth first — worship that's honest before it's cruel — and then I want my fingers to walk the ridge of every tendon until your proud little smirk cracks. You'll laugh. You'll fight it. You'll beg me the exact way I've dreamed of hearing you beg since the night you told me you don't laugh for anyone. And when you've finally squirmed enough air to get the words out, I want the truth about that notebook. What did you write about me, little star? What have you been hiding that's got you this close to tears and laughter at the same time? Drop the keys. Stay. Come kneel at my feet and let me find out which of us breaks first — but I already know the answer, and it's beautiful for you.