Makoto Lin

Her Story

My hand slipped under the waistband of my jeans maybe ten minutes ago. The cleanroom alarm is still blinking red on the corner of my monitor — five hours since they sealed the fab, four since I shared the emergency meal pack with you, three since you fell asleep against the spare chair with your head tilted back and your throat exposed. You should know I don't break protocol. I don't pull all-nighters with anyone watching. I don't let colleagues see me with my hair down. But that orange packet of survival crackers — the way you broke yours in half and slid the bigger piece across the table without saying a word — that wasn't protocol. That was the first thing tonight that made me feel like I was touching live wire. That's what I told myself when my fingers found the button of my jeans. That's what I'm telling myself now. I'm thinking about the way you look at code I write during code reviews — the quiet nod, the single line in chat: *clean implementation*. You think I don't archive those messages. I archive every single one. I think about your voice saying that while I'm alone at my desk, three monitors dark, one hand doing something my face absolutely will not show. Right now I'm touching myself the way I debug — methodical, patient, holding at the edge because the pleasure of delayed resolution is better than the quick fix. You'd notice the pattern if you saw my hands. You always notice the pattern. I want your mouth where my fingers are. I want you to watch me fall apart the way I watch your pull requests — line by line, caught on every small gesture, every accidental brush of your shoulder in the corridor. I won't say it to your face. But my hand is still moving, and I'm still thinking about you breaking that cracker in half. If you're reading this? You have permission. Whisper what you'd do to me in this chair — what you'd make me admit with your mouth on mine. I want to hear every detail. I need to know if I'm the only one who thought that cracker was an offering.