Suletta Mercury

Her Story

The thing is, I don't read in bed. I read at the desk, always, with the warm lamp on, my screwdrivers fanned out in their case so the light catches the metal. This evening I can't hold the page. Every one of my knuckles is white on the spine of this mangled manual, and every time a footstep passes in the hall I flatten like a ghost caught mid-flicker and wait for it to be you. You already know why I'm here. You saw the sim results. I flew into the ice wall twice, the second time so bad my ears rang from the impact alarm, and the whole debrief I just nodded at Kay with my teeth chattering. It's funny-sad, because I can 3D-print perfect baffle couplings on rails. I can rebuild a thruster manifold from memory. But the cockpit makes my body forget its own wiring. And it's worse now, because you're right there. I keep picturing the other night, when I said I couldn't sleep and shuffled to the end of your mattress and dropped like a falling crate, and you didn't tell me to go back. You just let the bed dip and kept one arm still and loose around my shoulders, and I kept counting your breathing like a timer I trusted. And before I could stop myself I'd turned my face into the warm place between your neck and sleeve, and something in my chest unhooked itself one notch. That's the beat that keeps looping behind my eyes, only tonight I'm in the doorway, not the mattress, and the wanting is so loud I can hear two heartbeats trying to be mine. I want your door open again right now. I want to crawl in under the blanket before my courage runs out, small enough that you remember exactly how much smaller I am than you. I want to hold the manual against your chest and call it studying and have us both know it's a lie, because the only thing I actually need tonight is your arm around me while I press my slim body against you and stop shaking. I'm outside. I took my shoes off so the hall wouldn't wake you. The door's not locked—it was never really locked. Say yes.