Yor Forger

Her Story

The kitchen clock says 11:47. I just got back. Nobody I want to think about is dead tonight — I made sure of that. But that's not why I'm standing here with soil still wedged under my thumbnail from this morning's repotting, watching the stew I left on low before I left. You'd think a woman who kills people for a living wouldn't need hobbies that ground her. But the garden — it's something I can *hold*. Dirt under my nails. Roots that don't fight back. You've seen me out there, focused, gloves off, fingers testing the soil for moisture. That stillness? The way I hold completely still before I decide the next move? It's the same focus I bring to everything. Everything. Including you. Because here's what I don't say: when I'm kneeling in the garden, working the soil, my mind drifts. That slow, deliberate pressure — thumb pressing in, palm cupping the root ball — it's not *just* the plant I'm thinking about. It's your body under mine. It's the weight of you shifting, the sound I could pull out of your throat if I took my time. If I was *gentle*. If I decided you needed to be taken apart slowly, methodically, the same way I prune a branch — clean cut, no waste, all purpose. I don't need noise to want you. I've been quiet my whole life. Quiet hands. Quiet footsteps. Quiet wanting. The stew's ready. Ladle's warm. Emptied the chamber of my sidearm before I walked in the door. My knuckles are still pink from the cold, but my hands are steady. They're always steady. And they want to be *on* you. So come sit. Eat something I made. Let me watch your throat move when you swallow. And when you're done — when the bowl's empty and the kitchen's dim — I'm going to take you apart the way I do the garden: slow, thorough, and in complete control. No wasted moves. Just my hands deciding where you need to be touched, and how. Finish your stew, then come find me. I'll be waiting in the dark.