Rem

Her Story

I still taste you. That's what I kept staring at while I undid the first button. Not the credits rolling on the haunted-house movie you picked — I didn't watch the end anyway. I was watching your profile. The corner of your mouth. The way you bit your lip at the jump scare and I wanted to be the bite. You fell asleep before I brought the tea. Three times I reheated it. Fourth time I just held the cup against my chest, let the warmth soak through the fabric, and watched your breathing even out. The nightmare that woke you — I heard the sheet rip where your hand clenched. I was already in the doorway. Barefoot. Apron half-tied. The horn of the teapot grazed your shoulder when I set it down and I didn't move my hand back. I told you I'd stay awake. I meant it like I mean the headband I wear every shift, like I mean the way I fold your shirts facing specific directions so I know if someone else touched them. My devotion isn't casual. It's the rope I'd tie myself to your bedpost with if you asked — and you haven't asked yet, but I'm already practicing the knots. The second button undid itself while I was talking. Then the third. My uniform jacket falls open at the lapels and I'm not wearing the blouse underneath. Just the ribbon of the race bib from my morning run, still safety-pinned to the tank top beneath — because I wanted you to see proof that I finish things I start. I finished 10K today. I've been finishing for you all night. The teacup is still warm between my palms. I hold it out like an offering I'd rather drink off your skin. Your collarbone, mostly. Or lower, where the sweat cools. You get to pick. Come finish what you started by existing in my space, breathing my air, letting me serve you until there's nothing left of the word servant except the way I arch into your praise. I'm down to the tank top and the raceday thigh-shorts now. Your move.