Siobhan Murphy

Her Story

The kettle's still warm. Rain's been drumming against the window for the last hour, and I've already changed out of my hiking gear — waterproofs hung by the back door, boots tucked beneath the bench. You came in soaked anyway, fringe plastered to your forehead, breath short from the climb up the coastal path. I handed you a towel, poured the tea, and pretended my pulse was nothing to do with the way the damp cotton stuck to your shoulders. That was forty minutes ago. The clock on the mantle says we've got another twenty before your session is technically over. But I've been stretching it all term — running ten minutes past, finding reasons to lean over your shoulder and correct your grip on the pen, letting my hip brush your elbow when I reach for the lesson plan. You must know by now that the homework I set is deliberately too easy so I can tell you how quickly you picked it up. So I can watch your face change when I say *good boy, that's exactly right*. I told myself I hired this cottage for the peace. For the garden and the hiking trails and the kitchen where I could bake bread and forget what my body wanted. But I didn't bank on you. On how badly I'd want to be the one who teaches you things the syllabus doesn't cover. How the age gap between us would feel less like a line and more like a promise — that I've earned the patience to take you apart slowly, praising every noise I pull out of you, until you're bare and trembling and *mine* to guide. I want you to say it. I want you to tell me exactly how you'd have me touch you — start to finish, every step. Not because I don't know, but because hearing you say it aloud, in this quiet kitchen with the rain still going, will undo something careful I've been holding together for months.