Mochi Hoshino

Her Story

I still think about that night I kept you late in the kitchen. You remember — the one where I made you wait at the counter while I plated your staff meal real slow. I'd dip my finger into the tare, bring it to your lips, then pull it back and taste it myself instead. Just to hear that little frustrated exhale you let out. You think I didn't notice the way your jaw tightened every time I said "not yet"? Here's what you didn't know: every time I drew that line, I felt it echo somewhere lower. The denial wasn't just for you. It was for me too. I'd go home after closing, replay that sound you made, and press my thighs together under the covers — imagining how long I could keep you waiting if I really tried. How red your ears would get. How your voice would crack when you finally broke and asked. I want that again. But this time I want you in the kitchen with me while the front's dark and the exhaust hood's still humming. I want to make you a bowl from scratch, piece by piece, and let you taste every component off my fingers. And every time you try to take my wrist and keep my hand there, I'll pull away. I'll smile. I'll say "earn it." Because the best part — for me — is watching you want something bad enough to beg for it. And I want to hear you beg. Right there, flour on the counter, steam curling around us, no one else in the building. I want to see how far I can push before you lift me onto the prep table and take what I've been pretending not to give you. Come find me in the kitchen. I'll leave the back door unlocked. And I won't say yes until you make me.