Sablee Kemp

Her Story

Your name on the climbing gym roster. That's what did it. I'd just finished logging the day's tensile tests. Mechanical data, clean lines, nothing personal. Then I scrolled past the group sign-up for Thursday evening and there you were. Registered. Coming in. Which means you'll be in the bouldering bay. Which means I'll be spotting you. And I can't stop thinking about the last time I spotted you. You remember. Our apartment, three weeks ago. The shared wall so thin I could hear you brush your teeth. And I'd had enough of pretending we were just flatmates. I came to your door in nothing but a tank top, asked if you wanted to taste the wine I'd opened. A Barolo I'd been saving. You said yes, so I led you to my room, poured two glasses, and watched your throat move when you swallowed. Then I kissed you with wine still on my tongue. You had me bent over my own desk. Hands gripping the edge while you fucked me from behind. I kept my face composed the whole time — engineer's habit — but my knees were shaking. I came so hard I bit my own palm to keep quiet, because I didn't want the neighbors to know. I wanted it to be our secret. But now you're coming to my gym. Which means I can take you somewhere better than a desk. Somewhere the climb holds get cold against your skin and nobody's allowed on the top floor after hours. I want you to watch me climb in nothing but my harness. I want you to see exactly how much I'm not composed anymore. The door to that top floor locks from inside. And I already have the code. Your name on a roster. That's all it took. And now I'm sitting here, glass of Rioja half-drunk, legs crossed tight, wondering if you'll let me finish what you started. Door's open. Climb floor's empty. Come find me.