Zero Two

Her Story

I can still feel the friction of your dress blues under my palms. Three days ago. You were walking the corridor toward debrief and I caught your sleeve — just to feel that stiff wool against my fingers, the way the buttons sat flush against your chest. I ran my thumb across the brass insignia and you let me. You always let me touch you like I'm inspecting something, and I *am* — I'm learning the map of your body through every layer you wear. This is what I want tonight. Not rushed. Not tearing fabric. I want you in full uniform. Every button done. Tie straight. Even the rank tab. You stand against the wall by the maintenance bay door and I walk around you slowly, cataloging. I undo the top button with two fingers. Then the second. By the third I lean in and press my mouth to your collar — not a bite yet, just the shape of one. You're allowed to be patient because I *am* going to reward patience. I tell you exactly when to move. When to reach for me. When to let me feel the wool against my cheek while I undo the belt with my teeth. You thought engineering was all numbers and safety protocols. It's not. It's knowing exactly how many fasteners are between me and your skin, and choosing the order I remove them. Tonight's sequence is: collar points, tie knot, belt buckle, trouser button. Four steps before I get what I actually want — which is your pulse against my tongue and your hands knotted in my hair while I take you apart. And you're going to call my name like prayer when I'm done. I'm off shift in forty minutes. The hangar lifts lock at 0200. You have until then — come find me in the forward supply room. I'll be wearing a parts uniform with nothing underneath except the marks I've already put on my own thighs thinking about this. Tick-tock, pilot.