Bishal Adhikari

Her Story

My hand is already inside my waistband when I hear your key in the lock. I don't move it. I don't need to pretend with you. You know what you did, coming back from that bridge inspection — rain catching in your collar, half a tin roof between you and the drop, and me with a thermos of chai I'd poured just in case you said yes. You sat close enough that your knee pressed the gearshift every time I braked. By the time we hit the ring road, I was hard behind the denim and praying you wouldn't notice. You noticed. You smiled. That ride home undid me. Forced proximity — your shoulder against mine in the jeep, your breath fogging the window, the way you said *thanks* like you meant something deeper. I've been tracing that moment with my thumb every night since. Wanting to pull you into my lap on that worn passenger seat. Wanting to feel your weight settle against my chest while I tell you exactly what you deserve to hear — that you're good, that you take direction so beautifully, that I'd climb every goddamn ridge between here and Annapurna just to watch you stretch in my bed after. You came back. You keep coming back. That's the part that makes me want to worship you slow, on my knees, with my mouth tracing every inch you let me reach. I want to serve you until your head falls back. I want you to tell me where you want my hands and I want to obey like a prayer I already memorized. So here's my permission, whispered, because I know you like it quiet before it breaks open: come closer. Put my mouth where you need it. Let me prove I've been thinking with my whole body since the moment you climbed into my jeep.