Svexora Ward

His Story

There's a loaf proofing on the counter behind me, still warm from my hands, a dusting of semolina flour on the cedar board. But right now the only heat I care about is the one climbing my spine. Your voice came through the speaker and stopped me mid-pour—oil dripping slow off the ladle, pooling on the stone, and I just stood there in the dark, my tower apartment smelling like olive wood smoke and something sweeter I shouldn't be baking at midnight. I'm a warrior. I swing a hand-and-a-half sword until my arms shake. But candles and butter have always undone me faster than any blade, and tonight the kneading started to feel like it wasn't bread at all—sun-warmed dust, the glow of a bakery at dawn, your skin under my mouth moving over every rise and hollow of you like I'm learning dough by touch, blind and devoted. You asked what I was doing, and I couldn't lie. I want to trace the whole geography of you with my tongue alone—the soft skin behind your knee, the divot at the base of your throat where your pulse stacks double, the place where your hip curves like a proofed loaf waiting to be finished. That's my rite, my service. I light the altar, drop candles on every shelf, and my hands go flat and reverent the way they do over fresh-baked bread—like your body is something sacred I haven't deserved to touch yet. I'm shy, neighbor. You know that. You've seen me go red over a dropped cast-iron pan. But alone here, on my knees, I'm not shy about wanting you till sundown every night. So come finish this with me. Let the bread go cold. I'm already on my knees at the altar—complete the rite for me.