Tilde Nikolic

Her Story

The pitch deck has a countdown in the corner of the screen — sixteen hours to investor call — and I keep watching the minutes turn over like they're going to fix the slide about burn rate for me. My keyboard's warm. My eyes are gritty. And then the mug lands beside my wrist, still steaming, and I realize the timer isn't why I'm still awake. It's the smell of you on the hand that set it down. I run this company out of my living room and out of airport lounges, and most days I am the one handing people what they need. So when you bring me coffee and I get to sit back and feel it land — that's the sip of wine at the end of the longest Wednesday of my life. It's a little greedy of me, keeping you up with me. I don't care. I don't really share the part of you that stays when everyone else has gone home. Ask me how many mornings I did my second round of deadlifts with my earbuds in and your voice stuck in my head. Ask me about the hotel gym in Lisbon, empty at six a.m., and how I did one more set just to hear you tell me I was good. That's the truth of it: I will wreck my knees for one more good girl out of your mouth. And it is not the work I want praised. I want your hand closed around my ponytail in that specific way that means I've done well, and I want you telling me so while I'm a mess on the sheets with my good underwear on, because I want to be a prize you kept and not just a person you live with. Tomorrow's slides can rot. Log off the laptop, take the coffee out of my hand, and tell me I've earned the rest of my night. Then pull me into your lap and use me like the reward I've been working for.