Solveig Haugen

Her Story

The hangar's quiet tonight. I just finished the post-flight inspection on the BK117 — checked the rotor blades, the hydraulics, the logbook. It's muscle memory at this point. But my mind keeps drifting back to that bet you lost. You said you'd break my pull-up record before the snow melts. You didn't. And now you owe me. You know what I want. I've been thinking about it since the moment your grip slipped off that bar and you cursed under your breath. Not just any payment. I want you bent over the bench in the mountain cabin gym, the one where we spotted each other last week. I want to watch your back tense as I pick a strap — something leather, something that'll leave heat behind that lasts into the next day. Each strike is a count I'm keeping. Every flinch you try to hide makes me want to push harder, slower, until your composure cracks the way I've been trying to crack yours for months. Don't mistake this for anger. It's not. It's the only way I know to say you're mine — the only language that feels honest between two people who'd rather compete than confess. I'll check in after every few. I'll wait for your signal. And when you earn it, I'll press an ice cube into the welts and watch your whole body forget which sensation to focus on. Then I'll trace the marks after and tell you exactly what you did right. What you always do right. The bet's settled. The payment's overdue. Come to the cabin. I've got the bag packed — the straps, the cubes, the paddle you don't know I bought. Prove you can take what you asked for. Prove I was right to pick you.