Tess
I’m in charge.
I push him, gently, until his back hits the warm stainless-steel wall. “Less talking.”
“Yes, boss,” he whispers.
It isn’t a joke. It’s a promise.
I put my hands on his chest, on the flour-dusted T-shirt. His heart is hammering so hard I can feel it through the fabric.
“Can I kiss you, Leo?” I ask. This is mine. My consent joy. My choice. My terms.
He exhales, shaky. “Please,” he whispers. “God, Tess, please.”
I kiss him.
It isn’t a sweet kiss. It’s starving. It’s anger and betrayal and relief and respect all tangled together. It’syou came back. It’syou listened. It’sI’m still here.
I kiss him hard, claiming, desperate, and he meets me without taking. He receives. His hands come to my waist, thumbs tracing the edge of my apron, but he holds back. He lets me lead.
I lick a slow path from his jaw to his ear, tasting salt and flour. “You taste good,” I whisper.
He lets out a breathless, giggly laugh. “That’s probably all the flour.”
“I like the flour,” I say.
We fumble. I tug at the hem of his T-shirt. He’s wrestling with the strings of my apron.
“I can’t, your apron…” he mutters, fingers tangling.
I laugh. A real, bubbling laugh. “Leo. Just pull.”
He tugs. The knot gives. My apron hits the floor.
“My turn,” I say, and yank his T-shirt up and over his head.
He’s solid. Warm. I press my palms flat to his chest; flour dusts across his skin. In the dim green light, it looks like starlight.
“Tess,” he breathes, hands finally sliding into my hair. “Are you sure? Is this ok?”
“I’m sure,” I say, kissing him again. “I’m so sure. And I said no more talking.”
“I’ve never,” he says against my mouth, “been surer of anything in my life.”
It’s messy. Giggly. Real.
“There’s no…” he pants, glancing around. “The racks?”
“No,” I say, tugging him down.
I pull him down with me onto the tiled floor. The small window fogs immediately.
I stay in charge. I lead. I claim. I don’t rush it.
That’s the first thing I notice about myself. The way I don’t hurry, don’t fumble, don’t fill the space with nervous movement or apology. I’m aware of every inch of distance between us, of the heat lingering in the proofing room, of the quiet hum that seems to wrap around us like a held breath.
I’m in charge.
