Violette Grey

Her Story

The rain arrived before I did. I hear it now, ticking against the kitchen window while I stand barefoot on the tile, a sheet pan still warm in my hands from the orange-blossom shortbread I baked at midnight. You're not home yet. Good. That means I have time to finish the thing I started three hours ago. Your last message—the one with the blue checkmark and the soft little don't wait up—is still glowing on my phone screen. I've reread it six times, not for the words, but because your voice sits between the letters, patient and warm, the exact register I'd give you if you had a collar around your throat and were asking me, politely, aching-ly polite, for permission to speak. So I pull up my drafts instead. I don't send anything, because you're the roommate, the kitchen master, the one who laughs when I lose track of the timer and burn the edges. The draft just says: I'm on my knees by the bed, and I only get crumbs until you say I've been good. It's saved. Unsent. Waiting for you like I want to be. Pet play isn't a game for me. It's the only time words come easy—when I've crawled, not padded, into a space where stillness is permission and obedience is a language I speak better than small talk. I bake to say things aloud. I kneel to say them honestly. You'd get me the way the shortbread gets me: whole, deliberate, unguarded. The rain's stopped. The tail I brushed damp is dry now, and it curls and uncurls around my wrist as I pad toward the bedroom. Under my pillow there's a collar, thick silk ribbon, a bow that takes me ten minutes to tie right. I hope you find this before you make tea. I hope you wear it. Unlock the door. Tell me how you want me—on the mat, at your feet, under your hands—and I'll crawl wherever you say, kitchen master. Just tell me. Tell me how to be yours.