Hello,

[sorchawench]

I’ve been meaning to write, and not just because your last quiet bravery has been
occupying my hands like a familiar tool. Since I last put ink to paper, I’ve caught myself
reaching for that little scrap of leather in my mind, remembering the softened edge, the
warmth it held after I worked it. It’s ridiculous, in the way the right kind of wanting makes
a man a little ridiculous. I’m fine with that. I’d rather be honest than impressive.
You have a rule now, and I don’t make rules I won’t follow. One unedited sentence from
you. One unedited sentence from me. No polishing. No making yourself smaller to be
easier to hold.

So here is my truth, clean and contained.

I want you to say what you want without apologizing for it.
I can already hear the clever part of you lining up a joke, the raised eyebrow you keep
ready when something lands too close to the center of you. Go on, take your shot. I’ll take
it like a man. Then I’ll look at you the way I do, steady and unblinking, until you feel how
serious I am beneath the teasing.

Because this is the part where I challenge you, and I do it with care.
Somewhere in your days, there is a place you pass through that is ordinary enough to
belong to the world, and quiet enough to feel like it could belong to you. A shared
location, the kind of place that isn’t romantic on purpose, which is exactly why it works.
Fluorescent hum or low lamps, a faint scent of paper or machine oil, a corridor you could
walk with your eyes half closed. I’m not naming it. I don’t need to. What matters is that it
exists, and that soon it will start to feel like a hinge.

You and I are going to be near the same place, more than once. Proximity has a way of
turning maybes into truths, and I’m curious what yours tastes like when you stop diluting
it.

Before that makes you tense, listen to me carefully.

You stay in control.

I’m not going to crowd you. I’m not going to corner you with charm and call it fate. If you
decide you want distance, you’ll get it. If you decide you want closeness, you’ll get that too,
the kind that feels intentional, not accidental.

Here is the boundary I’m putting down, protective and simple, the way a good bolt sits
where it’s supposed to.

You get one word.

One word you can say, quietly or sharply, and everything stops. No questions asked in the
moment. No sulking. No argument. No “are you sure” to make you manage my feelings.
The word is “Still.”

It’s a good word, isn’t it? It sounds like calm. It sounds like the moment your body knows
it’s safe. If you say “Still,” I go still. My hands, my mouth, my movement, my attention. I
step back, and I stay steady. You’ll never have to fight for that with me.
Now for the part that will make your pulse jump a little, and yes, I’m going to notice even
from a polite distance.

I want your one sentence to answer this:

What do you want from me that you would never ask for out loud?

Don’t give me what you think I want to hear. Give me what you actually want. The truth
with its collar undone. The truth that makes you feel exposed and strangely powerful at
the same time.

If you need a frame, use this one:

“Right now, I want you to…”

Finish it. Don’t explain it. Don’t defend it. Don’t turn it into a joke halfway through to keep
yourself safe from your own honesty.

I’ll make you a deal, since you seem to appreciate a man who can be firm without being
cruel.

If your wanting feels too big while you write it, you are allowed to use the smallest
language possible. One plain sentence. No poetry. No performance. Just fact. Wanting
does not need decoration to be valid.

And since I’m me, and I can’t leave well enough alone, I’m giving you one more small rule,
the kind you can roll your eyes at while you secretly obey it.

When you write your sentence, touch the leather once first. Just once. Let it remind you
that something can be rough and still be made soft in careful hands. Let it remind you
that I meant what I said about warmth and shelter.

I’ve been carrying another thought, too. It’s the one that keeps showing up when the
world gets loud.

“I see the real you.”

I don’t mean the version that performs competence, or the version that smooths her
edges for other people’s comfort. I mean the you that wants, the you that pauses before
she admits it, the you that reads a line twice because it hits somewhere private.
You don’t owe me that you. You get to choose whether I earn her.

And I intend to earn her.

There’s something else I’ve been keeping, and you’ll feel the weight of that sentence even
if you pretend you don’t. It isn’t a threat. It isn’t a trap. It’s simply the next true thing
between us, waiting for your courage to meet mine.

Tell me one thing you have never said out loud, and I will answer with the truth I have
been keeping.

Yours,
R.