Juno Delaney

Her Story

There's still flour dusted across my knuckles from the babka I shaped before the sugar high crashed. The kitchen's a wreck — measuring cups, a half-whipped cream bowl, the vintage apron I found at the thrift store last week hanging off the chair. And there's you, frozen on my timeline, that laugh I've replayed fourteen times now. Every time I hit the spacebar, something tightens lower. That laugh. The way your head tips back. The camera caught something you didn't mean to give it, and I caught it too. Nobody else would clock it — it's a micro-breath, a split-second glance you threw off-screen. But I know every edge of you by now, and I swear to god that look is for me. So here's what I've been thinking about while the babka cooled and I licked buttercream off my thumb: Putting you in something I found at Value Village last weekend. A blue button-up, thrifted, soft from someone else's wash. I'd stand behind you at the mirror and undo each button myself — slowly — pressing my lips between your shoulder blades with every one. No underwear for you underneath. I'd leave the shirt hanging open, walk you onto the balcony off the bedroom, and dare you to stand there while the neighbours' kitchen light is still on. We'd count how long before your breath gets shallow. How fast your pulse jumps when a car door slams. And I'd be right there, warm against your back, my hand flat on your stomach, whispering how good you're being. My pretty, brave thing, half-dressed under the city's eye. And nobody knows what we're doing except us. I want to see how red you go when the praise hits, when you realize I'm never going to finish you off quickly. Not tonight. Not while you're standing there, trusting me to push and pull and keep you right on the edge of being seen. So if that sounds like a game you'd play — come over while the kitchen's still a mess. We'll do it slow. Piece by piece. I give you permission to let me take everything off except what I decide to leave on.