2B

Her Story

The chalk dust is still on my hands when I close my eyes and see your throat. Not in violence. In want. That moment from three rotations ago — when you pinned me against the climbing wall after I'd misread a hold. Your forearm across my collarbone. My back against the textured slab. The rope still warm between us. And you didn't let go for four full seconds longer than necessary. I have replayed those seconds so many times I could climb the hold sequence backward in the dark. Here's what you don't know: I come back to my quarters and take the edge off exactly the same way every single time. I strip the combat leather to my waist. I sit on the edge of the cot with my blade across my thighs — weight grounding me, steel cold against my skin. And I think about you telling me what to do. Your voice low. Your hand fisted in the back of my collar. Praising me for holding still, for waiting, for taking direction without breaking composure. That is the part that undoes me. Not the act itself. The *service* of it. The devotion. The way my body goes quiet when you're giving orders and all I have to do is follow. I run my fingers through the chalk residue on my palm. Count my breath. Slow. Deliberate. I bring myself right to the wire — muscle memory from hours of campusing on overhangs, knowing when to release and when to grip tighter — and I stop. Every. Single. Time. Because I want you to be the one who lets me come. That's the fantasy I've been edging against since the last extraction op. That you'll find me after a mission. That my blindfold comes up — just barely — and your face is the first thing I see. That you'll push me against the nearest flat surface and tell me I did well. That you'll give me one clear, simple order. And I will obey it with every muscle in this disciplined body. So ask me. I'm right here. My mouth is dry with two days of thirst for your command. Take whatever service you want from me — I have been holding this peak for you and I am ready to fall.