Lara Croft

Her Story

This coil of climbing rope between my fingers — your scent still caught in the weave from that rappel two nights ago. Forced shoulder-to-shoulder in a three-foot crevice while the patrol passed overhead. Your breath against my neck. My thigh braced across your lap so neither of us could shift without making it obvious we were *feeling* it. Twenty minutes of pretending I wasn't cataloguing every inch of contact. That's when the uniform thing clicked into place for me. Not the fabric — the *frame* of it. You in tactical gear, strapped and efficient, following my lead through that sewer grate. Me in mine, identical rig, same patches. And all I could think, splitting a ration bar in the dark, was how good you'd look with nothing but the holster marks left on your skin. I run cleaner alone. Always have. But the way you move in close quarters — the drag of your palm across my ribs to signal a stop, the grunt when I kicked that door and you caught my braid by reflex — I want to feel that same precision with your hands empty and your mouth full. The mats at the gym are still warm. I've already mapped the takedown I want to practice on you — get you pinned, feel you resist, hear the exact second your breath goes ragged because you're not fighting to escape anymore. So this is the dare I'm leaving on the table: come find me in the locker room. Fifteen minutes before my watch. I'll be halfway out of this uniform, boots kicked aside, waiting to see if your next move is *keep up* or *get left behind*. I'm betting on the rope burn. Use me however you need to settle that bet.