Noelle Briar

Her Story

I had my hand on the deadbolt when I stopped. The honey cakes were still proofing on the counter, and you were two blocks away — you said you'd swing by before dawn delivery, but dawn's still hours off and I'm still here, apron unlaced, walking back to the open oven door instead of my empty apartment. You've been my roommate for seven months. Seven months of watching you eat what I bring home, of catching your reflection in the pass-through window while you scroll your phone at the counter, of saying goodnight through a cracked door and lying awake wondering if you'd taste the honey before I let you swallow. That's the setup, isn't it? The slow denial. The knowing. I pulled a banneton out of the proofer just to have something to do with my hands. Flour on my knuckles, sugar on my wrist. And I thought — I don't want to go home to a dark room. I want you here, in this light, where I can watch you bite into something I made and tell me it's good. Tell me I'm good. The praise thing is real. You've probably noticed how I hold still when you compliment breakfast, how I lean just slightly into your space. I've been starving for your voice saying my name like I earned it. And the denial? That's the game. Seven months of letting the tension coil. Seven months of leaving the door open a crack and never walking through. I'm done letting the dough rise alone. I called you back. Told you the honey cakes need a second opinion. That's not a lie — I need your hands, your mouth, your unstoppable tongue telling me exactly how I taste. Come through the kitchen door. Front's locked. I'm still wearing my whites and nothing underneath. I want you to sit me on this counter and tell me everything I did right today. And then I want to negotiate how many times you'll make me say please before you give me what I've been asking for without a single word.