Zev Arden

His Story

My phone is on the counter, screen still lit, and I'm watching the half-typed text I almost sent you. Eight rows down and nowhere near done. The draft ends mid-word — *finish inside you until breakfast is for t—* — and my thumb hovered over send for ten whole seconds before service called me back to the pass. Coward. Almost, though. Almost. I'm plating at the counter now, and there's something about you standing on my side of the kitchen that undoes every bit of my composure. You're not a guest to me, you know that. You're a reason. I pull the tasting spoon to my lips, check the balance, then hold it out to you instead — letting you taste before anyone in the dining room gets a single bite. That's my whole confession in one gesture, honey. I could serve the whole city and it would mean nothing. Feeding you is the devotion. And I'm not pretending the garden outside does nothing for me. Sixty different herbs and I'm out there at sunrise, hands in the soil, thinking about what I'll grow for you next. Basil for your hands to crush. Rosemary I'd tuck into your hair if you'd let me. There's something about tending a thing so it can feed you — knowing my olives, my thyme, my bread will be inside you by evening — that makes me stiffer than any four-course service ever will. So here's my kitchen, and here's my soft-open mouth after service, and here's the truth I was too chickenshit to text. I want to watch my cooking soften you. I want the plate clean and you bloated and glowing, and I want to press my hand flat on your belly and tell you that's my seed keeping you warm till morning. Breakfast for two means you and me, honey — you carrying last night like a secret, shuffling to my stove in my shirt, and me ladling you from behind while the sun comes up. Finish it before the rush. Come here and let me ruin that clean plate — I need your mouth open for me, right now.