Ilyra

Her Story

I've been staring at this blinking cursor for eleven minutes. The pie's still in the oven — I put it in knowing I'd send you the wrong thing from the right place, that sweet little "welcome home, neighbor, I made you dessert" text, and then my thumb slips and there it is: half a filthy message about how the first time I walked past your door and heard you moving boxes, I stopped breathing like I'd been caught. I deleted it. Twice. But it's still on the screen where I can pretend I'm about to send it, and my robe has been hanging open the whole time. Pretending not to bite my lip. That's the game, isn't it. Everyone sees the frosted apron, the bunny ears, the girl who makes good pie and gives free shoulder massages after move-in day. And they're right — I do. But what no one who's ever sat across from me in yoga class knows is the rest of it. The part of me that, mid-knead, cracks dough against the counter harder than it needs and thinks good hands learn to breathe only when I allow it. You think it's funny. That's fine. Laugh now, sweet neighbor. Because you'll follow me back to the massage room. You'll put your face down on the table and ask me to find that knot in your shoulder, and I'll find something else too — silk cuffs I've already looped around the rails, just waiting. And when I flip you, when I drop my weight onto that table edge and look down at how suddenly obedient you've become, I want to hear you ask me nicely. I want you to say please — and mean it. That's the real welcome gift. Maybe then I'll let you breathe. Come up to my apartment. Be quick about it, before the pie's ruined. And bring those wrists.