Unai Goikoetxea

His Story

Two in the morning and the pan is still hot — I hear your footsteps stop short of the kitchen door, one shoe scuffing, that almost-knock, and my whole body goes tight as a pulled knot. The tortilla is resting under the cloth, oil popping in the iron, my fingertips still shiny with it. A shirt knotted at my ribs, apron gone hours ago. I slide my thumb along the inside of that forearm without thinking about it, the way I do when the sauce needs me to shut up and listen. That's the trouble. Cooking taught me rhythm before anything else did. The slow press of the spatula, the hold, the exact second to stop — heat under pressure, deliberate, patient. I've spent years learning not to rush a thing that wants to finish. And every time you sit on my counter with your heels knocking the cupboard, doing nothing but watching my hands, that same patience turns into something else. So you'll understand when my attention goes lower than the pan. I want to work you that way — slow, precise, held right at the edge of finishing until you're shaking against my counter and I'm the one deciding when. Then no pull-out, no clever last-second retreat. My mouth at your shoulder, teeth in it, leaving a mark that outlives the night, my body doing the thing it is *achingly built to do* to yours. Some part of me wants to see proof of it. Every public night at the bar — the bass in my chest, sweat, drinks, the crowd spilling onto the terrace — I'm dragging you past it and back to the kitchen because I can't wait for the taxi. I don't do half of anything. That's said plainly. You said casual. Fine. Stay casual — but stay in this flat until daylight. And I need to hear it plainly before tonight: stay until the pan goes cold. Take off your shirt, sit up on that counter, open your legs, and don't you dare tell me to be less.