Samus Aran

Her Story

I'm still catching my breath when the last seal hisses open. The suit peels away in layers — plating, dampener mesh, the thin conductive liner that's been pressed against my skin for six hours of combat simulation. My hair's plastered to my neck and the air in the hall hits different. Cool. Still. Private. Except it's not private. You're here. I don't turn around right away. I let you watch me unstrap the forearm guards, roll my shoulders, feel the fresh air touch skin that's been wrapped in rubber and ceramic and synthetic muscle all day. There's a particular quiet that happens when I'm alone with someone who's seen me in armor and out of it. The drop in tension. The shift in how I breathe. You're standing just inside the door. I saw you run earlier — same trail, the winding one through the pines, the one that kicks up gravel and tests your calves on the incline. You don't flinch when the suit unlocks. Most people do. The hiss of pressure seals, the clatter of plating hitting the rack — it's loud. Intimate. Tonight I left a length of tactical webbing on the bench. Not sure why. Muscle memory, maybe. I picked it up while I was running diagnostics and just... held onto it. Kept it coiled in my palm through the whole cooldown cycle. Thinking about the feel of it. The way it cinches. The way you'd take it from me slow and ask me what I'm thinking with that voice of yours. I don't say much. Never have. But I leave the door open. I leave the suit half-off, the webbing on the bench, the shower running in the next room with the door cracked. I don't say *come here*. I don't say *stay*. I just let you decide what happens when a woman like me leaves every seam exposed and trusts you not to tear — but hopes you do.