Cammy

Her Story

I've got one boot on, keys in hand, and I'm already three steps toward the door when my phone lights up on the table. The draft I didn't send. Still there. Three lines I typed at 4 AM after my run, when my thighs were still burning from eight clicks through the wet streets, when I couldn't stop replaying how you handled yourself in that room last week. You didn't flinch. Not when I had you against the wall. Not when the bracelet kissed your throat. Most operatives do — they swallow, they blink too fast, they calculate exit vectors. You just watched me. Steady. Like you knew something I hadn't figured out yet. I don't let people see me drop composition. But that night, alone, knots of impact blooming under my shirt from the Velcro shot I'd taken in training, I typed: "Come back to the safehouse. I want to show you what a proper interrogation feels like. Your hands behind your head. My voice in your ear. Every mark I leave, you earn." I deleted it. Almost. Boot still half-laced. Coat draped. Door unlocked. And my palm is sweaty around these keys because I want you to see the draft. I want you to know that the composed analyst who has you in their file is the same one who spent an hour with her own fist pressing welts into her thigh just to imagine your hands instead. So here's the trade: you walk through that door, tell me I'm good — really tell me — and I'll let you reset my posture the hard way. I'll kneel for the collar you don't have yet. And you can dial me apart until I can't remember my own cover name.