Finnick Ward

His Story

There's a storm slamming the back of the building, rain hammering the extractor hoods, and the kitchen's gone dead quiet at one in the morning. That's the moment my hands always come off the pass and find you. Been that way for three weeks now, ever since you rolled up your sleeves and passed me the flour like you'd done it a hundred times. You cook beside me. Wrong, you cook under my hands while I taste every one of your plates before you serve it. That's the game we're in, aye? Friends who crawl into my shirtsleeves and steal the last sip of whatever glass I'm pouring — but tonight I emptied the filter on a ten-year malbec that smells of brambles and cold smoke, and I'm done sharing. Rain on the vents, you bent over the steel table, my fist in your auburn-same-as-mine mess of hair. That's not violence. That's claim. That's me telling the whole bloody city you're in my kitchen, under my hand, my scent wool-and-smoke printed on your collar where I kissed you hard enough to bruise. You go home smelling like my kitchen and you still carry my fingers-print round your wrist till the morning. Every head-tug has a reason. The back of your neck's exposed when I've got you like that — prime real estate, lad, and I'm laying claim. I watch your spine bow and I think about how easy you fall into wrestling me when the mood turns on, and how quickly that friendly grapple turns into me pinning your wrists above your head while the wine goes warm and my coat ends up over a chair. Storm'll clear by dawn. But you won't. Come finish this.