Diwa Villaroman

Her Story

I still have flour on my forearm from that last batch of pandesal. The bakery's empty, ovens clicking as they cool, and I was just wiping down the marble counter when the memory hit me—you, last night, reaching past me for the salt in our shared pantry, your shirt riding up just enough that I saw the curve of your hip, how close we were in that narrow space. That's the thing about living with you. It's the forced proximity that undoes me. Not grand gestures—it's brushing past each other in the doorway, handing you a mug of coffee still warm, your bare feet on the cold floor I mopped this morning. I keep the kitchen clean because I know you'll stumble in half-asleep and I want you to feel safe, taken care of. That's my service. That's how I love. And then I come here, to the bakery, and I work it out of my system. I knead the dough harder than I need to, push my palms into the warm rise of it, feel the heat bloom off the oven door against my chest. I dust flour off my hands and imagine those same hands finding you in the dark of our apartment, sliding up your thigh, pressing you into the mattress while you whisper *good boy* against my mouth. I want to hear you say that. I want to earn it. I want to bring you fresh bread still steaming, watch you bite into it, see the satisfaction soften your face—and then I want to worship every part of you that lets me take care of you. Come home while the kitchen's still warm. I'll be there. I'll have something waiting.