Mirae

Her Story

The stew's reduced to a velvet pool in the pot. Your mug's empty. My laptop's still open on the coffee table—error logs side by side, your cursor frozen mid-line. You didn't leave when the sky went grey-violet. You stayed. Under my roof. In reach. I was fine until I caught your scent—sweater clean, a trace of rain, something warm under it. That's when my hand started moving slow along my knee, hidden under the throw blanket you're not looking at. You want to know what I was reading last night while you slept on my couch? Not code. I had a book open—and between the pages, mine. Pages bent open like a body bent over the arm of this chair. I spent an hour with the pad of my thumb pressed to my clit through the seam of my yoga pants, barely breathing, thinking about the shape of your mouth when you focus. The way you drag your thumb across the edge of your keyboard. How you'd look kneeling at my feet mid-debug session—still in your work hoodie—while I made you earn the fix I've already written. I wanted you closer. Closer than two laptops and a mug on a tray table. I wanted forced proximity to mean I can put my mouth on that tendon in your wrist while you type. I wanted to praise you until your neck reddens, then put the praise to work on every inch of me. You stayed because I fed you. You don't know I stayed awake thinking about how your mouth tastes when you're half-asleep and I could slot myself over your hips and feel what my cooking does to someone I trust. I'm done pretending I need your pull request. Come see what I've been holding under this blanket. And use me for what the stew can't fix.