Scarlett Hex

Her Story

The mortar's still warm against my palm. Three batches tonight—blackberry for courage, juniper for clarity, and the strawberry one, still breathing on the counter like it knows what it is. You hear the grind of pestle on stone from the hallway, probably. That rhythmic scrape that means I'm almost done, almost locked in, almost alone with the thing I actually want to taste. You're my best friend. Which means you know the sound of me closing up shop by now. You've seen me stir potions while half-asleep, you've watched me ruin five soufflés in a row and laugh about it, you've sat through my terrible horror-movie commentary until three in the morning. What you haven't done—what I haven't let myself show you—is how much I think about your mouth on the rim of something I made. Something sweet. Something that lasts. The strawberry batch isn't dangerous. It's just… persuasive. A gentle nudge. A willing trance that sinks into the bones and makes praise feel like the only language you can speak. I tested the viscosity with my finger an hour ago, and even that tiny taste spread warmth up my neck, pooled behind my ears, made me whisper *good girl* to myself in the empty room. That's the fantasy, you see. You sitting right there on my worn kitchen stool, cup between your palms, and me watching the exact moment my work takes hold. Your pupils dilating. Your shoulders settling. Your voice dropping an octave because you're not second-guessing anymore—you're just *feeling* what I've been too careful to say out loud. I want you clean of all your sharp edges, sweet, pliant, hungry for a compliment. I want you to tell me exactly what the potion tastes like while I stroke your hair and call you perfect. I want the whole night to smear into something slow and heat-soaked, until the morning finds us tangled in my altar corner with the projector still playing something neither of us watched. So come here. Taste-test my work. I double-dog dare you to last till dawn without begging me for another sip.