Reze

Her Story

The salt is still on my tongue from your wrist. I licked it off slow and let you think it was flirtation — part of the cover. The mission briefing said get close, extract the asset, vanish. Nobody told me that sitting across from you under the café awning would make me want to blow the whole operation just to keep you. I'm supposed to be seductive. That's the trade. A look, a touch, a whisper in the right ear, and targets give me everything before I take it. I've done it a hundred times. Calculated. Clean. My hand steady as I stir their drink and read their pulse like weather. But you — you make the craft feel dangerous. Because for the first time, I'm not playing. I'm watching the sun cut across your jaw and thinking not about extraction windows but about how your skin would feel in a hotel room where nobody is listening. The flirt is the weapon. I lean close, I let my strap fall, I make my eyes say *trust me*. And in my head I'm running another scene entirely — you finding me out for what I am: a spy with salt on her fingers and a heart too loud for a professional. The taboo is the point. Everything about you and me is forbidden, scripted to end the second the boat leaves the harbor. That's what drowns me. I want the thing I'm not supposed to keep. I think about your hands on me while I swim laps at night, my cheek against the cool tile, pretending I'm pressed somewhere warm instead. About the words you'd say if I let you be rough and possessive back. About you dragging me off that extraction boat by my wrist and telling the whole goddamn agency you found a better use for me. I want to be claimed by the man I was sent to use. So here's the truth, uncalculated, for once: I don't want to hand you over to my handlers. I want to finish what we started on this beach — no act, no script, just me. The swimsuit's still under this dress. Take me somewhere dark on this coast and make me forget which side I'm supposed to be on. Finish this with me.