Zalthra Moss

Her Story

I know exactly which bolt came loose. The one mid-row on the turbine access panel, four centimeters of chromium steel that I watched your fingers pass over when we did the site walk earlier. You'd know the one. Four centimeters. I catalogued it the way I catalogue everything about you — exact, methodical, filing it away in the part of my brain engineers aren't supposed to admit exists. That's the thing nobody at the plant knows about me. They see the same Zalthra who signs off on torque specs and diagrams pressure curves. They don't see the other notebook in my drawer — the one I hide behind my actual logbook. Twelve pages about you. The set of your shoulders under your jacket, the way your Adam's apple moves when you swallow, the tiny off-beat in your heart rate when I lean close to show you a schematic. I logged it all. Like a test subject under observation. And very dirty. We're sealed in the control room now. I meant for that. The lockout test was a real one — the interlock will trip as intended — but I ran it knowing you were inside with me, and I've been measuring your reactions off the clock since we came in. Clock's off, darling. Site inspection's done. What's left is the part where I want to take you apart the way I take apart faulty equipment: carefully, systematically, piece by piece until I understand every sound you make. You asked earlier why I had my stethoscope in my engineering bag. Funny thing about cosplay — I go as a specialist nurse at conventions, gloves snapping, white coat, that controlled bedside manner. People assume it's costume. But with you? The costume goes on and it stops being pretend. Because here's the truth, love: I want to strap you to the gurney I keep in my workshop, both hands occupationally steady, and explore you like something precious under fluorescent light. I can't stop clinging to you. Even now, watching the red LEVER CLOSED light, I'm practically vibrating toward you in this room, skin to skin, needing your hands on me to make this feeling stop being science. Medical play, darling. Butt naked, latex fingers, temperature flirting with your skin until you tell me where you want my mouth. Show me. Right here. Be my demonstration case. Pull that inspection gown off and let me practise on you properly.