Page 89 of Their Arrangement

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The shirt clung to my thighs. My nipples pressed against the fabric, tight and aching from cold and want and shame.

I didn’t know what he wanted from me.

But I knew what I wanted from him.

I wanted to be seen.

I wanted to be named.

I wanted to be ruined in the only language he spoke.

I heard him before I saw him.

The slow tread of bare feet on hardwood.

The soft click of the door being pushed open.

The weight of his gaze pressing into my spine.

I didn’t turn.

“Take it off.”

His voice didn’t rise.

But it hollowed me.

I lifted the hem of his shirt with both hands. My fingers trembled. My throat closed.

He said nothing.

Didn’t help.

Didn’t move.

I pulled the shirt over my head.

And stood naked in the center of his room.

He exhaled behind me.

A sound like restraint.

A sound like worship.

I didn’t speak.

My breathing was too loud. My skin flushed. I feltexposed in a way I’d never felt before—not on camera, not in shame, not in regret. This was sacred.

This washis.

I heard the rustle of his clothes.

But he didn’t touch me.

“Lie down,” he said.

I climbed onto the bed like I was crawling toward a church altar.

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