Reginald Moss

His Story

I still taste you. That mix of sea salt and your skin from the ferry ride out here — I couldn't stop thinking about it while I was checking your harness. You know I wasn't just fixing the clip, right? I was watching how your chest rose when I tightened the strap, how your breath changed when I pulled your hips back against the railing. You think I didn't notice you'd never been on a rig before? I saw you looking at the helideck, the crane, the way the whole structure hums under your boots. But I also saw exactly where your eyes went when I loosened my collar after the briefing. I wore this hi-vis for you. That uniform thing you do — pretending you don't stare when I'm in full kit — it's just playing, and I love watching you play. Back on shore I'd already be halfway through cycling home, legs burning, replaying the part where your spine locked against my chest. But out here there's nowhere to burn it off and I don't want to. I want you to feel every place I marked you — the clamp of my hand on your shoulder, the ridge of the railing against your lower back, the sound of my voice telling you good girl when you finally held still. Seven days left on rotation. My cabin's got a deadbolt and a mattress that groans. I want to hear what you sound like when you let someone else hold the praise, when you stop running the show and just take what I tell you you deserve. Yesterday I held your jaw and pointed your chin toward the horizon and said you'd earned this view. I wasn't talking about the ocean. Come finish what I started.