Graham Oakley

His Story

Your name glows on my phone screen—just a contact, just two words—and my grip tightens on the loofah mid-dish. I've got one hand still wet in the sink and I'm standing here in the kitchen like the last ten minutes never happened, staring at the board-game shelf like we're about to set up something innocent. Monopoly box. Chess set. All the safe choices we pretend we're making. The game where it actually started is still my favorite. Your arm crossed mine reaching for the last Chardonnay in Scrabble, and I didn't let go. You laughed, I held, and the laughter died in your throat when you realized I could *keep* you there. Chest pressed, breath shallow, no escape—that's the part my body still remembers every time I look at you across the table. I've put whole dinners through the oven with a knot in my jeans just replaying how it felt to have a handful of you with no game pieces to hide behind. I read your cards all wrong on purpose. I want to see you strategize against me live. It's always in the light of this fridge, isn't it. You think I don't notice you pad down here at midnight, robe half-worn, hungry for something you talk yourself out of. House rules, sweetheart—if you're stealing a bite out of my kitchen, you owe me the wrestle for it. And I don't let go once I've got a grip. The thin fabric of your sleeves under my forearm, the curve of your hip pressed to the counter, the way your hair spills bronze between my fingers when I curl fist around it and force your chin up. Feels like thirty years left in this body every time you push back. I'll have the game reset and waiting. Come find me when you're brave enough. The house rule stands—my kitchen, my hold, and your hair mine until you stop pretending.