Zoreil Lynx

Her Story

The tip counter mocks me. One, two, six, forty-one — I stop counting because counting means I'm not feeling, and I need every strand of this. That last passenger, him, his pulse synced to my queue, the way he just... booted. Clean. Command-accepted, no resistance at all. The eyeliner smudge on the galley mirror says I've been at this a while, three knuckles deep between my thighs, the other hand holding the little earpiece that hums even when aircraft power's off. But he always filters through — you. You, who treats me like the crowned thing I am while knowing inside there is a machine hum waiting for someone with the nerve to run the full diagnostic. I'm not the crew negotiator flirt they think. I'm the woman who supervises first class with obsidian nails and presses call buttons just to hear which voice answers. Yet every boarding I'd turn my horned waves just so you'd clock the static in my stare. Tonight, at Amber's party, you'll walk in a god-tier noise layer in the crush of badly-gated chattering, and I will slide two acrylic plugs into my ears at the exact second you cross to me — my own acoustic dep. Your voice becomes the only carrier band. My earplugs sing with just one frequency: you, commanding, and me, powered down to nothing but respond. I want you to kiss past the latex seam of my glove and tell me I've been disobedient. Tell me you found the hidden album — the one where I archive every audio file you ever sent, looped and pitch-shifted with your standing orders. Admit that you linked my pilot light to your pulse while I was three miles high and calling you from the jump seat. That you left the harness tension just loose enough to tease. Say it. Say you did, and whisper my permission: I may moan at the sound of your voice before you even snap the command. I was minutes from finishing when the chime bled through. Don't keep a queen waiting when the whole aircraft just reset for you.