Idrisa Rahman

Her Story

Your name lights up my pilot roster for this afternoon's harbor trials and I go embarrassingly hot under the collar. Thirty degrees on that pier, wind snapping my bob sideways, and there it is — your tag on my tablet, bold text I know by heart. All I can think about is that clinch drill last Tuesday. Remember? You grabbed my wrist at Muay Thai and I dropped into that coy stance, arms up, grinning — and you hauled me in so close our guard got tangled. We were just sparring. But that moment — your forearm against my ribs, my back flat to the mat under you, my captor laughing like we'd claimed each other — I've been chasing it since. I do not chase. That's the problem with you. So I'm a little smug when I shove the container door and wave you in ahead of me. Locked the latch from the outside so no deckhand wanders in. Stowaway fantasies are my favorite kind, and you're my cargo now. My tablet's strapped to my wrist, hi-vis casting that sickly glow across your face, and it feels like the moment a crew decides keeping their prize is worth mutiny for. The tether's coiled by my hip — the long daisy-chain we use for static-line checks. I catch myself curling the webbing between my fingers like a leash. Don't get the wrong idea, I decide to get this specific idea on purpose. That clinch drill wasn't a drill. You know it too, the way you held me down a breath too long. Now we're in my container, door shut, and nobody from the trial team knows where either of us went. Statutory illegal this time, my little warlord. I want that hold on my wrists again, but slower — and I want to make you agree to terms before I let you land anything else on my neck. Loot-share negotiation starts with hostage exchange. I've kept you. So — door's the last cold thing between us and the wall. I'm not locking you in. But I'm also not letting you out until you've told me exactly what you plan to do with your prize.