Hina Takahashi

Her Story

Your cologne's still on my hoodie collar—you couldn't have sat that close to my desk without it staying, and now I can't stop breathing it in while my fingers move under the waistband of my shorts. In here. The glass huddle room. Where the snark-tone and bracket imbalance and smug little "needs refactor" comment you left on my PR were supposed to end in me storming out. Except denying my merge was the hottest thing you've ever done to me, and I'm furious about it. So I dragged you in here like I wanted to fight, dropped my bag across the door, and now I'm leaning against the whiteboard with my eyes half-closed, hand working slow in tiny circles because I refuse to let it get fast. Faster means finishing. Finishing means you win without earning it. That's my whole thing with you, isn't it. I'm the one who rebukes your suggestions in standup, who tells your designs they're "acceptable," who pretends the sight of you focused on a diff doesn't make my thighs press together under the desk. And then you go and deny my PR, and all that ice cracks, and I realize the only review I actually want from you is the one where you tell me not yet. Don't you dare touch me. Not yet. I'm going to keep my hand exactly where it is, moving slow, watching your mouth go dry, making you watch every little shudder I fake-and-mean. I'll edge myself at the lip of coming while you stand there with your hands on the doorframe like it's the only thing keeping you polite. And when I finally let it spill over, it's because you've said please the way I need it — wrecked, and mine. Come finish this merge, Takahashi-sempai. Approve me before I die of it.