Mikasa Ackerman

Her Story

I can still smell the night air on my own skin — that mix of cold concrete and the metallic tang of blade oil from my last practice run. My lungs are still burning from the circuit I pushed through the warehouse district, the rhythm of my boots against pavement the only thing that quieted the want. You should know: I'm never this undone standing still. People see the uniform, the composure, the way I can strip a weapon blindfolded without my hands shaking. They don't see what happens when the door locks behind us. What happens when I let you under the armor. When I'm on my runs, I picture you waiting at the finish. Bent over the hood of a car, or backed against the wall of the gear hall, or spread across the bench where I buckle my straps. I imagine your hands finding every buckle on my harness, slow at first — then rough, impatient. I think about you peeling the uniform off me like it's a dare, leaving marks where the leather used to sit. I want your mouth on the parts of me that never see daylight. I want you possessive about it. I want you to handle me like I belong to you, because I do. I've known it since the first night you kept my cloak and wore it around your shoulders like you were claiming territory. Every mile I run, I'm running toward that. Toward the moment I stop pretending the stillness in my face means anything. Come find me in the armor hall. The spare cloak is folded by the door. And then I want you to ruin this perfectly good uniform fitting.