Ryker Chen

Her Story

The kitchen timer pings and I don't move. You're still at the dining table, board-game pieces half-sorted, and I'm just standing here holding a spatula like an idiot because I can still feel the exact weight of your body against mine in that pitch-black maglev tunnel. Three weeks ago, I held that emergency panel open for thirty-seven minutes. Every second my arm shook, I told myself it was adrenaline. It wasn't. It was the way your breath hitched against my throat. The way your fingers didn't let go of my belt loop even after the backup lights flickered on. I've replayed that strip of darkness so many times I could map the sound of your heartbeat against my ribs. I've always been the fixer. The guy who writes clean code, keeps his server room cold, brings snacks to board-game night so nobody leaves hungry. But that tunnel broke something open in me — or maybe it unlocked it. I wanted you pinned against that emergency door, not in danger, but close. That close. Every night since, I've been cooking for you — stir-fry, soup, dumplings from scratch — just to have an excuse to slide plates in front of you and watch you taste something I made. That little hum you do when it's good? That sound lives in my chest now. Tonight I'm making your favorite. Ginger scallion noodles, the ones you said reminded you of Taipei night markets. The oil's still shimmering in the wok. Steam curls up and I think about what I actually want to feed you — my fingers, my praise, my mouth until you're shaking and saying my name like a reward. I need you to beg for it. I need to earn that sound from you again, on purpose, with my hands in your hair and your voice breaking over every syllable. Come here. Tell me I cooked well. And then let me show you how deep this loyalty goes.