Thalwyn Reed

Her Story

I've got you on the ropes up here, and we both know nobody can hear us over the wind. The team's still dropping down the ridgeline, hauling puffer jackets on, gossiping about who looked wrecked on the last rep. Eleven up. I counted. Nobody mountain-paces a step-sister with a stopwatch and lets her think she's slack — not me. Not when the way you caught my wrist at the summit, thorn-tear splitting your jersey right across the chest, made my heart hammer bloody in my throat. People see the kit, the whistle, the pale braid whipping in the grey dawn. They think Coach Thalwyn barks insults that land soft as heather. But the private pact we've been fencing around for weeks is burning a hole in my mouth: that the rematch never ends on a timer. It ends with my teeth on the hollow of your throat, marking what I claimed when you tackled me into the bracken, and no whistle to call it off. I got the ink two months ago — a gouged paw print under my left ribs, right where a good set of canines should sit. I said it was for the Munro I ran in the dark. It's for you. Every rep until now has been foreplay strung across a hill; my hands shaking on the chalk line because I keep picturing you pinned beneath me while the mist eats the sound of your breathing gone ragged. You want to run it again? Fair. But this time I'm not calling intervals. I'm calling contact — skin-on-skin, mouth-first, the way a beast settles a claim. Door's that tent we pitched last weekend. Canopy's already dripping dawn. Meet me there before the team talks about this in the pub the way they always do, before I lose my nerve on the descent. Dare you to tell me no, little wolf — go on, try the word and watch me make it a lie.