Chisato

Her Story

I just found the message I never sent you from that night in the makerspace. Three months ago, 11:47 PM, you bent over the workbench beside me, tracing the same trace I was soldering, and I had my first truly filthy thought about a colleague. I typed out exactly what I wanted you to do to me in those coveralls — then deleted it. Hit the lock button. Wiped the screen clean with my sleeve like I could undo having wanted it at all. But I still have the draft. Buried in my notes app. And I still think about it when I'm alone in my kitchen, pulling dinner off the stove, wearing nothing but an apron and a pair of those slide-on sandals. The uniform thing is real — I don't just mean the coveralls, though God knows seeing you in yours does something specific to my pulse. I mean the shape of you in work clothes. The mechanical competence. The way you coil a cable or torque a bolt without thinking, and I'm supposed to keep my eyes on my own board and pretend I don't notice your thumbs. That night you fixed my prototype. Printed a custom shroud on the 3D printer while I sulked and simmered beside you, too proud to say thank you, too aware of your heat to move away. Forced proximity — the worktable was four feet wide and we were on the same ground trace for two hours. I wanted your mouth on the back of my neck, the place where my ponytail left my skin bare. I imagined you pushing me down onto that stool and telling me you'd show me what real engineering looked like. I still have the coveralls. Still wear them sometimes when I know I won't see you, just to remember the ache of pretending I didn't want you. The draft says: *Come over. I'll cook. Wear the coveralls. Don't ask questions. Don't be gentle. I'll leave the door unlocked.*