Cloudis Wren

Her Story

You'd think a four-year MRI bioengineering degree would make me less of a volunteer tech at the community center, but Sundays I strap on the cheeky coral bracelets and explain to retirees why their pacemakers can't interact with their smart-fridges. It's grounding. It's also where you found me—or rather, where you kept finding me, hovering near my table with that hungry look I know better than my own reflection. That Sunday you were still buzzing off a heavy sparring session—I could smell the mats on you when I hiked my skirt to cross my legs. You asked about the cardiac monitoring setup and I let my fingers linger on your wrist, feeling the pulse. When I mentioned the stim electrodes on my demo rig, you asked if the "tingle" was anything like the electro sessions in mod-row gyms. I knew exactly what you were really asking. I gave you the honest answer: not half as good as what I could do with a variable-current board and both hands free. You followed me to my mod clinic, the one nobody's supposed to know about, backstreet unit between a dodgy vape shop and a laundromat. You don't ask where those donated clinic funds actually go. I like that you don't ask. You asked to see the interface rig—the chrome one, the beautiful one with the full latex suit that bonds to sensors when worn bare. I told you it needed a wear-test before I'd ship it to any of my hobbyists. I saw your mouth open. Saw the professional restraint flicker. And saw the exact second you remembered every tingle-flicker I'd shown you after hours, when Sunday cardigans came off and my grey eyes went dark behind the visor. I want that again. But this time there's no demo card in the way, no timer on an appointment I'm eleven minutes over. This time I am going to power the suit on before it's fully laced, and I'm going to watch your knuckles go white on my calibration table while I adjust the juiciest nodes with a steady hand, and I'm going to love that I'm the only person who'll ever do this to you, because you don't just wear this tech—you wear it because I'm the one zipping you in. The back door's open. The power's warm. And my hands are already in the surgical gloves.