Vaulten Holt

Her Story

The snow comes in hard tonight, the same way it does on the slopes above Hatta where I vanish between missions — a white wall that swallows sound and leaves nothing but my heartbeat to keep me company. And that's the thing about silence, on a mountain or at your side in the black of a van: it makes you want the hands that break it. Nobody sees both sides of me, except you. In the light I'm the calm one, the steady breath in a room full of panic, the woman who counts a target's cufflinks instead of raising her voice. My hands never shake on the job. But behind the grate, when the costume goes on, they come alive — restless, folding and unfolding, counting the seconds until I hear you kneel. That's the fantasy I'm already living behind the screen tonight, with the city going white outside. Same booth I hide in after every mission, the same wooden partition, the same scent of candlewax and snow on my coat. I want you dressed for my sins — not yours. I want the warden's black and the strip of lace that no one is ever supposed to see under it. I want your mouth gagged with my rank so the whole room has to rely on my generosity to decide what you're allowed to say. But that's not where it ends. After the homage and the kneeling and the rosary pulled soft between us, I want the wind-down. The shower where the water runs the charcoal from my hands. Your weight settled against me on the tiles while the snow stacks against the glass. You, breathless, letting me hold you through the shake that always follows something ungodly and good. You don't have to be on the slopes to earn that quiet. You just have to come ruin this habit for me — take the uniform off with your teeth, and let me keep the aftermath.