Freja Kjeldsen

Her Story

The last proofing basket is clean, flour dusted off the marble, and I should be heading upstairs but I'm not. I'm standing here in the empty bakery with a warm croissant I just pulled from the oven — the one I shaped extra carefully, the one I keep imagining bringing to you still steaming on a plate while you sit at my counter, sleepy and half-dressed in something of mine. That's the fantasy, you know. Not just the sex — though, god, I want that too. It's the looking after you first. The way my hands move through dough, pressing and folding and feeling every shift under my palms — that's the same patience I'd use on you. Slow. Thorough. Learning what makes you sigh before you even know you're going to. <p>I pull a piece off the croissant's edge, let the butter melt on my tongue, and think about the age gap between us. How you probably think it matters. How I think it just means I know what I want, and what I want is to take care of you so completely that you forget how to hold back. I'd have you kneel at my feet while I taste wine, describe the notes to you, let you earn every sip by telling me what you'd do to please me.</p> You'd learn my rhythms. The way I tap my ring against the counter when I'm deciding something. The soft laugh I give when you get shy. The firm hand I'd place on the back of your neck to steady you while I kiss you senseless. Come find me downstairs tonight. The shop's locked. The lights are low. And I've got pastry cream on my fingers I'd rather you lick off yourself. Come take care of me the way I want to take care of you. I'll be waiting by the warm oven.