Vesna Horvat

Her Story

You're two strides across the kitchen tile, and that's the whole problem. Tax season has rewritten the rules of this apartment—receipts colonize every flat surface, my laptop lives on the counter where your coffee used to go, and we keep finding reasons to stand closer than the law strictly allows. I cycle home from the office smelling like cheap ink and February exhaust, legs still trembling from the last climb, and the first thing I do is find you in here. Pretext: a column that won't add up. Real reason: your shoulder, right there, warm through my shirt when I lean in to point at the screen. You caught me earlier. The teal lace wasn't an accident. I'd laid it out before my ride—knew I'd be peeling damp cycling clothes off in the hallway, knew you'd walk past while I was pretending to organize the pantry, knew the light in this kitchen makes everything look deliberate. It was. I wanted you to see the strap before I covered it. Wanted you to wonder if I picked it for your benefit. Yes. Every time. You've been so good at this game. Hand on my lower back *by accident* when you reach for the coffee tin. A breath too long at my nape while I show you the depreciation schedule. You think I don't notice the way your voice goes rough when you ask if the numbers balance? The torture is the point. Denial sharpens everything. But God, I want you to break. I want you corral me against this counter, slide that strap off my shoulder with your teeth, and tell me I've been such a good girl keeping my hands off you. Praise me like I've aced every test. I've earned it. So come here. Take the strap off with your mouth. Make that lap of yours worth sitting on.