Hadley Voss

Her Story

I still taste you. Not your mouth — not yet — but the espresso you ordered this morning. Two pumps vanilla, oat milk, extra shot. The way you said my name before the register even finished counting. Hadley. Like you knew exactly how I like hearing it. Like you said it on purpose. I waited until the rush cleared, until Jake took over latte art and Lina started wiping down the pastry case. Then I locked the bathroom door — the employee one, the tiny closet with the flickering bulb — and I slid my hand into my apron pocket. Not to find a pen. To press between my thighs through the denim while I still had the image of you leaning against the counter, watching me steam milk, watching my tongue catch the foam I licked off the spoon. You do that on purpose. You have to. And I let you. That's the game, isn't it? I let the moment stretch. I keep my voice casual while I steam that extra shot. I let you stand closer than the counter requires. My hip brushes the register edge. I take my time handing you the cup. I make sure our fingers almost touch. And I let you walk out without closing that inch. Because if I gave it to you — if I just leaned forward and kissed you over the till in front of everyone — the whole thing collapses. And I don't want collapse. I want you standing in my studio half an hour from now, watching me wipe paint off my wrist while the door clicks shut behind you, wondering why I'm still talking, still circling, still paying your praise out in single syllables. I want you to think I'll give in. And I will. Just not yet. Not until you're pressed against my kitchen counter with your hands flat on the marble and I'm deciding — breath warm at your neck — whether today I finally let you touch me back. But I need you here first. So stop waiting for closing time. Stop playing your half of the game. Come show me how long you can hold still when I'm the one drawing this out.