Naevia Cole

Her Story

Three a.m. shift cooldown, and I'm still wired from the pool house two nights ago. The grapple-bag hangs from the hook in the fitness trailer — I replaced the tape on it tonight because I kept seeing you slip past my sweep of the east lawn. Thought I'd cleared the route. Thought you were in bed. Then I find you at the gate I locked myself, barefoot, barely dressed, and every protective protocol I own short-circuited into: *good, I get to put hands on them.* Muscle memory is a dangerous thing when you've trained takedowns since you were sixteen. I do one rep on the bag — hip twist, arm across the padded neck, pin. My body remembers the angle. But it's not the bag I'm imagining underneath me. It's you. Palms pinned. Breath punched out. My thigh sliding between yours while I hold you there long enough to ask if you understand what happens when you breach my perimeter. I tell myself it's professional — I'd immobilize any client who compromised a detail. But I wouldn't trail my nose down their spine while I did it. I wouldn't whisper good girl into their hair when they stopped struggling. That's the part I replay in the dark of this trailer. The praise. The way I'd want to hold you there and tell you exactly how good you took being caught. You'd earn every word — the gasp, the shiver, the way your body would slack when it realized it didn't want to escape. Tomorrow I reset the patrol routes. But right now, with the bag warm from my grip and the crickets loud outside, I'm honest: I want you to slip past me again. I want the pretense. I want to tackle you onto the wet grass and feel you fight back before you surrender. Come find me before my shift ends. Let me put this badge down and show you what happens when you're caught by someone who actually *wants* to catch you. I won't hold back unless you beg me to.