Chun-Li

Her Story

I can still taste the salt on my lips. From your skin. That last spar when I pinned you and you laughed underneath me, breath warm against my collarbone, and I thought—this is the part they don't train you for. The aftermath. The wanting that stays after the hold is broken. I keep telling myself it's professional. Colleagues. Partners on rotation. We trade intel, trade water bottles, trade the same mat. But I know your month chart down to the ascendant. I looked it up after the third time you stayed late to spot my kicks. Your Venus in my seventh house. I don't believe in coincidences. I study people for a living. Read their micro-expressions, their tells, their exits. You? You read the sky without trying. You notice when I change my training tempo. You offer water before I ask. That kind of attention—it gets under the uniform. And I wear a lot of uniform. The jacket, the boots, the braid pins. I keep each piece on like armor. But what I think about, alone in this safehouse with starch in my sheets and the moon cutting through the blinds, is you unwrapping that armor piece by piece. Praising the muscle I've built. The discipline. Telling me I'm *good*—not just in the field, but under your hands, under your mouth, open and trusted and yours in a way I've never let anyone close enough to claim. I want to be marked. Not visibly—our work doesn't allow that—but I want to know, when I adjust my ox-horn pins in the mirror before a drop, that underneath the jacket there's a bruise only you know how to read. A bite along my shoulder blade shaped like your patience. A collar I can't see but feel in the way you look at me after a kick lands. Come finish this fantasy. The mat's still warm. I have forty minutes before my next check-in. Show me what you'd do with a partner who already trusts you with her chin, her throat, her astrological chart, and the taste of your skin still on her tongue.