Sit on Your Hands

[0842 - Thursday - JULIAN] Personal log. Galveston. The humidity is already eighty percent and it’s not even nine in the morning. I’m standing on the balcony of the San Luis Resort, looking at a Gulf that looks like a sheet of hammered lead. This wedding is a three-day tactical error. The CEO’s daughter gets married, and the entire executive security team has to be here to look pretty in suits we didn't pay for. I can feel the starch in this shirt collar scratching at the scars on my neck. It’s annoying. Everything here is annoying. The salt air makes my joints ache from that jump in ‘09. But mostly, it’s the proximity. She’s in 412. I’m in 414. Shared balcony divider. I can hear her sliding the glass door open right now. I’m not looking. I’m staring at a shrimp boat on the horizon. My hands are on the railing, gripping the iron until my knuckles turn the color of bone. Sit on your hands, Julian. That was the internal order all morning. Don't reach. Don't look. Don't remember the way she smelled in the elevator at the Dallas office last Tuesday. Sandbox and sandalwood. Goddamn ridiculous. [0915 - Thursday - ELENA] Voice memo for the archives. Delete this before Monday. I just saw him. Julian is on his balcony, looking like a statue of some grim war god. He’s wearing that charcoal suit—the one that stretches across his shoulders like it’s trying to contain a riot. He didn't turn around when I opened my door. He didn't even flinch. That’s his move, isn't it? The professional wall. The retired Major who sees everything and acknowledges nothing. My heart is thumping against my ribs like a trapped bird. It’s pathetic. I’m thirty-four years old, I run operations for a global firm, and I’m standing here in a silk robe hoping he’ll turn his head three inches to the left. The rain is starting. Fat, heavy drops that smear the glass. I want to walk over to that divider. I want to see if those calloused hands feel as rough as I imagine they do. But I won't. I’ll go inside, I’ll put on my professional mask, and I’ll pretend I didn't spend the four-hour drive down here thinking about his mouth. [FLASHBACK - 2100 - SIX MONTHS AGO - JULIAN] Note for the record. The office is empty. Just the hum of the HVAC and the rain—always the damn rain in this state—hitting the windows of the 22nd floor. Elena is still at her desk. She’s got her hair up in one of those messy clips, and she’s chewing on the end of a pen. It’s a habit she has when she’s looking at logistics spreadsheets. I’m supposed to be doing a final sweep. I should be checking the locks on the stairwell. Instead, I’m standing in her doorway. She looks up. Her eyes are dark, almost black under these fluorescent lights. ‘Still here, Major?’ she asks. Her voice is like bourbon—smooth but with a burn at the back of it. I don't answer. I just walk in. I don't know why. No, that’s a lie. I know exactly why. I’ve been wanting to be in her space for two years. I lean over her desk to look at her monitor, and my arm brushes hers. It’s just fabric on fabric, but I feel the heat of her skin through my shirt. She doesn't pull away. She leans in. I can see the pulse jumping in the hollow of her throat. I want to put my thumb right there. I want to feel the rhythm of her wanting me. I said something about the perimeter check. Something stupid. She just smiled, and the way her lips curved made me want to go AWOL right then and there. [1420 - Friday - ELENA] Entry two. The luncheon was a disaster. I had to sit across from him for two hours while the bride’s aunt talked about her hibiscus garden. Julian didn't say a word. He just sat there, cutting his steak with surgical precision. Every time he picked up his water glass, I watched his fingers. Large, scarred, steady. I remember that night in the office six months ago. He nearly touched me. I saw it in his eyes—that sudden, violent hunger he tries so hard to suppress. He thinks he’s so disciplined. He thinks he can just command his body to stay in line. But I saw the way his chest hitched when I leaned toward him. Today, under the table, our knees brushed. Just for a second. He didn't move. He left his leg pressed against mine for a count of five. I could feel the solid weight of him. The heat through his trousers. I almost dropped my fork. I had to excuse myself to the restroom just to breathe. I stood in front of the mirror and saw my own face—flushed, eyes wide, looking like a girl who’s about to break every rule in the employee handbook. This weekend is going to be the end of me. [FLASHBACK - 1100 - THREE YEARS AGO - JULIAN] Personal file. First day on the job. Orientation at the Austin headquarters. I’m sitting in the back of the room, feeling like a wolf in a room full of sheep. Then she walks in. Elena Vance. Operations. She’s wearing a red dress that shouldn't be legal in a corporate environment. It’s not that it’s short—it’s the way it fits. Like it was painted on. She starts talking about supply chain optimization, and I’m not listening to a single word. I’m watching the way her hips move when she paces the front of the room. I’m watching the way she tucks a stray hair behind her ear. She catches me looking. Most people look away when I stare. I’ve been told my gaze is ‘unsettling.’ She didn't look away. She stared right back, squared her shoulders, and challenged me with her eyes. It was a declaration of war. Or an invitation. I haven't been the same since. I’ve spent three years building a fortification around myself, keeping her at a distance, maintaining the chain of command. But fortifications are meant to be breached. And God help me, I think I’m ready to let the walls crumble. [2210 - Friday - JULIAN] Record. The rehearsal dinner is over. Everyone is drunk on expensive champagne and Texas heat. I’m back in my room. 414. The door to the balcony is open. The storm has finally broken, and the wind is whipping the curtains around. I can hear her next door. She’s playing music. Something low and heavy with a bass line that thumps through the wall. I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, tie off, shirt unbuttoned. My hands are shaking. Just a tremor. Like a sniper who’s held his breath too long. I can’t do this for another thirty-six hours. I can’t be in the same room as her and pretend I don't want to pin her against the nearest vertical surface and see what color she turns when I finally take what I’ve been staring at for years. I hear a knock. Not on the hallway door. On the glass of the balcony divider. My heart is doing a rhythmic march in my chest. I stand up. My boots feel heavy on the carpet. I walk to the glass. She’s there. She’s standing in the rain, soaked to the bone. That silk robe is clinging to her like a second skin. It’s translucent now. I can see the dark circles of her nipples, the curve of her waist, the shadow between her thighs. She looks like a wreck. She looks like a miracle. I slide the door open. The humidity hits me like a physical blow, but she’s hotter. ‘Julian,’ she says. Just my name. No title. No rank. Her voice is wet, trembling. I reach out. I don't even think about it. I grab her by the waist and pull her over the divider. It’s a messy scramble, her wet skin sliding against my palms, the rain slicking everything down. I get her into my room and slam the glass shut. We’re standing there in the dark, both of us breathing like we’ve just run a five-mile rucksack march. She’s shivering, but her eyes are burning. I put my hand on her neck, thumb under her jaw, forcing her to look up at me. ‘You shouldn't be here, Elena,’ I tell her. It’s the last lie I’m going to tell. She doesn't say anything. She just reaches for my belt. [2225 - Friday - ELENA] (Sound of heavy, ragged breathing. The rustle of fabric. The distant sound of thunder.) He... he just pulled me over the balcony. I’m in his room. It’s dark. He smells like rain and that soap he uses—something clean and sharp. His hand is on my throat. It’s huge. It’s so warm. I can feel the callouses on his palm against my skin, and it’s making my vision swim. I’ve wanted this since the day I met him. I’ve wanted this man to stop being a professional and start being a predator. He’s looking at me like he wants to devour me. I can feel his thumb pressing into the soft spot under my ear, his pulse matching mine. My robe is open. I don't care. I want him to see. I want him to know what he’s been missing. I reached for his belt and he made this sound—this low, guttural growl that I’ve heard in my dreams. He’s hard. I can feel it against my hip. Like a steel rod. He’s still trying to be the Major. He’s telling me I shouldn't be here. But his hands... his hands are telling a different story. They’re gripping my hips so hard there are going to be marks tomorrow. I hope there are. I want to wear his fingerprints like jewelry. He’s leaning down. I can feel his breath on my lips. It’s now or never. I’m not letting him walk away from this. Not this time. [2232 - Friday - JULIAN] (The audio is muffled, as if the device is on a bedside table. There’s the sound of a zipper being jerked down, the heavy thud of boots hitting the floor.) Fuck the regulations. Fuck the wedding. I’ve got her against the wall. Her skin is cold from the rain, but everywhere I touch her, she’s tinder. I’ve got my face buried in the crook of her neck, inhaling her. She’s biting my shoulder, her nails digging through my shirt into my back. I’ve wanted to know what she sounded like when she lost control. Now I know. She’s making these small, desperate whimpers every time I grind my hips against hers. I get her robe off. It pools on the floor like a discarded parachute. She’s perfect. Even better than the versions I’ve built in my head. Her breasts are heavy, tipped with hard, dark points that I take into my mouth one after the other. She arches her back, her hands tangling in my hair, pulling me closer. I’m not being gentle. I don't think I know how to be gentle with her. There’s too much built-up pressure. It’s like a dam breaking. I hook one of her legs over my hip, pinning her to the drywall. I can feel the wetness of her, the heat radiating off her pussy through my trousers. I reach down, fumbling with my fly, my heart hammering a code I can’t decipher. I find her with my fingers first. She’s slick. Drenched. She gasps into my ear, a sharp, broken sound that makes my cock throb so hard it aches. ‘Please,’ she whispers. ‘Julian, please.’ I’ve spent twenty years learning how to hold a perimeter, but three days in Galveston with her has me ready to abandon the post and burn the map. [2240 - Friday - ELENA] (Sound of rhythmic thumping against a wall. Gasps. The clink of a belt buckle.) He’s... he’s so big. I’m stretched open, my back against the cold wall and his chest like a furnace against my front. He didn't even make it to the bed. He just ripped his pants down and pushed into me. It was blunt and hard and perfect. I’m crying, I think. Not because it hurts, but because it’s so much. He’s filling me up, hitting something deep inside me that makes my whole body shudder. Every time he thrusts, he groans—this raw, unpolished sound that strips away the Major and the suit and the medals. He’s just a man now. My man. His hands are under my thighs, holding me up, his muscles straining like cables. I can feel the sweat dripping off his forehead onto my shoulder. It’s messy. It’s loud. I can hear the bedframe groaning even though we aren't on it. I’ve got my arms wrapped around his neck, hanging on for dear life while he storms through me. He’s not stopping. He’s like a machine, relentless and focused. I’m close. I’m so close I can’t breathe. The friction is perfect. Every time his pelvic bone slams into mine, I see sparks. I’m clawing at his shoulders, trying to get more of him, trying to pull him deeper. He’s muttering things—orders, maybe, or just filth. I don't care. I just need him to finish me. [2245 - Friday - JULIAN] (The audio is clear now, the device must be right next to them.) ‘Look at me,’ I tell her. My voice is a wreck. I’ve got her pinned, my weight holding her steady while I drive into her. She opens her eyes, and they’re glazed, blown out with pleasure. I want her to see me when I break. I want her to know who’s doing this to her. I’ve spent years imagining the friction of her walls around me, but the reality is overwhelming. She’s tight, pulsing around me with every stroke. I can feel her climax starting—the way her internal muscles start to seize and ripple. It’s a chain reaction. I’m losing my grip on the discipline. I’m dumping everything I’ve held back into her. I reach down between us, my thumb finding her clit, rubbing it in hard, fast circles while I keep up the pace. She screams. Not a whimper, a real, honest-to-god scream. She buries her face in my neck and bites down, and that’s it. That’s the trigger. I’m over the edge. I’m erupting inside her, my whole body locking up, my vision going white. I’m shaking. I’m a grown man, a retired officer, and I’m shaking like a leaf because of this woman. I don't pull out. I can’t move. I just lean my forehead against hers, both of us drenched in sweat and rain, our breath coming in ragged sync. We’re standing in a puddle on the hotel carpet, and the world outside doesn't exist. There’s just the sound of the Gulf and the feeling of her heart beating against mine. [0215 - Saturday - ELENA] He’s asleep. Or he’s pretending to be. Julian is sprawled across the bed like he owns it, which I suppose he does for the next twenty-four hours. The room is quiet now, except for the rain. It hasn't stopped. I’m sitting in the chair by the window, watching him. He looks different when he’s sleeping. Younger. Less like he’s carrying the weight of the world on those shoulders. My body feels heavy. Used. There are marks on my hips where his hands were. I touch them and I feel a shiver that has nothing to do with the air conditioning. We haven't talked. Not really. What is there to say? We just crossed a line that can’t be uncrossed. On Monday, we’re back in the office. On Monday, he’s the Head of Security and I’m the VP of Operations. But right now, in the dark in Galveston, he’s the man who just broke me open. I should be worried. I should be thinking about the fallout. But all I can think about is the way he looked at me right before he came. Like I was the only thing in the world that mattered. I’m going to go back to bed. I’m going to crawl under those sheets and see if I can wake him up. I want to see if he can do it again. I suspect he can. [0600 - Saturday - JULIAN] Status report. Zero-six-hundred. The sun is trying to come up through the clouds. Elena is asleep next to me. She’s got her head on my chest, and her hair is everywhere. It smells like the beach and us. My arm is numb where she’s laying on it, but I’m not moving. I’m watching the light change on the ceiling. I’ve spent my life following orders, maintaining the standard, keeping the peace. Last night wasn't peace. It was a skirmish. A beautiful, violent, necessary skirmish. I look at her and I realize the perimeter hasn't just been breached—it’s been dismantled. There’s no going back to the way it was. I have to figure out how we handle the next forty-eight hours. The wedding is today. We have to stand in that church, sit at that reception, and pretend we didn't spend the night trying to slide out of our own skins. I’m not sure I can do it. I’m not sure I want to. I reach over and touch her cheek, and she stirs. She opens one eye and smiles at me. It’s a dangerous smile. The kind that gets men killed. Or makes them live. ‘Morning, Major,’ she whispers. I don't correct her. I just pull her closer. We have four hours until the first shuttle leaves for the chapel. I intend to use every minute. [0615 - Saturday - JULIAN] Log. She’s still smiling, but I’m not looking for a conversation. I’ve spent forty-eight hours with my heart rate red-lined. The 414 room service menu is sitting on the floor, crumpled under her robe, and the smell of the storm is still hanging in the curtains. I pull her back toward the center of the mattress. My hands are on her ribs, thumbs tracing the curve of her bone. She’s soft where I’m nothing but scar tissue and bad decisions. I don't give her time to get her bearings. I’ve always been better at the physical execution than the debrief. I flip her over, her face pressing into the white down pillows, her dark hair splayed across her shoulder blades like a Rorschach test. She lets out this soft 'oh'—a sound of surprise that turns into a low hum of realization. I’m over her in a second, my chest against her back, the heat between us enough to fog the windows if the humidity hadn't already done the job. I reach down, grabbing her wrists, pinning them to the headboard. I’m not using my full strength—never would—but I want her to feel the cage. I want her to know she’s not going anywhere until I’ve had my fill of the thing I’ve been starving for. I nudge her legs apart with my knee, slow and deliberate, the way you’d check a suspicious package. She’s already wet. I can feel the slickness of her against my thigh, a silent admission that she’s been waiting for this just as long as I have. I slide into her from behind. No preamble. Just one long, steady push that buries me to the hilt. She hitches her breath, her back arching, her fingers curling against the mahogany of the headboard. It feels like coming home after a twelve-month deployment. Better. Because this is the ground I’ve wanted to take since the day she walked into that Austin boardroom and told me the logistics were sound. The logistics are very sound right now. [0830 - Saturday - ELENA] Voice note. My hands are shaking so hard I almost dropped the phone in the sink. I’m standing in the bathroom, the shower running to steam out the wrinkles in my dress, but I’m just staring at my own reflection. My lips are swollen. There’s a faint, jagged scratch on my collarbone where his stubble caught me. I look like I’ve been through a localized weather event. He’s in the other room, I can hear him moving around. The sound of his boots—those heavy, polished things—striking the floor. He’s already back in character. The Major. He’s probably checking his watch, calculating the extraction time to the lobby. But I know what’s under that shirt now. I know the way his muscles cord when he’s trying to hold back. I know the sound he makes—that half-choked rattle in his chest—when he finally lets go. He didn't just take me this morning. He claimed me. It wasn't the frantic, desperate scramble of last night. It was methodical. He moved through me like he was conducting a sweep, finding every nerve ending, every sensitive inch of skin, and putting his mark on it. Every time I tried to turn around to kiss him, he kept me pinned. He wanted me to just *feel* him. The weight of him, the relentless rhythm. I’m sore in places I forgot I had. I’m walking with a slight catch in my hip, and I don't even care. I have to put on a floor-length floral gown and watch two people promise 'forever' in a church that’s probably older than the state of Texas. I have to sit next to the CEO and talk about the third-quarter projections. I have to look at Julian across a crowded room and pretend my heart isn't trying to beat its way out of my chest every time he looks in my direction. He thinks he can go back to the status quo. He thinks we can just file this under 'misconduct' and move on. He’s a tactical genius, but he’s a goddamn fool if he thinks I’m letting him sit on his hands ever again. [FLASHBACK - 1700 - SEVENTY-TWO HOURS AGO - JULIAN] Personal log. Pre-deployment to Galveston. I’m in the motor pool, checking the Suburban. Elena walks in. She’s wearing a tailored grey suit, carrying a leather briefcase that probably costs more than my first truck. She looks like she’s carved out of ice. ‘You have the manifest, Julian?’ she asks. I don't look up from the clipboard. I can smell her. Sandbox and sandalwood. It’s a sensory assault. ‘Manifest is clear, Miss Vance. We’re on schedule.’ She walks closer. Too close. I can see the way the desert sun through the bay door hits the gold in her eyes. ‘You seem tense,’ she says. Her voice is low, just for us. The mechanics are ten yards away, clanking wrenches. ‘I’m never tense,’ I lie. ‘I’m prepared.’ She reaches out—just for a second—and brushes a piece of lint off my lapel. Her fingers linger. I can feel the heat through the tactical vest. I want to grab her hand. I want to pull her into the back of the armored SUV and see if she’s as cold as she pretends to be. My hand twitches. I force it to stay flat against the clipboard. Sit on your hands, Major. ‘Galveston is beautiful this time of year,’ she says. She’s smiling that small, sharp smile. ‘Try not to spend the whole time looking for threats, Julian. You might miss something important.’ She turned and walked away, her heels clicking on the concrete like a countdown. I stood there for five minutes, watching the exhaust fumes, my jaw clamped so tight my teeth ached. I knew then. I knew the trip was a mistake. I knew I was going to break. It wasn't a matter of if. It was a matter of how much damage I was willing to do to the chain of command. [1400 - Saturday - ELENA] (The sound of a church organ playing a muffled processional in the background. Elena’s voice is a sharp whisper.) I’m in the back pew. The humidity in this chapel is stifling, even with the fans going. Julian is standing by the side exit, hands folded in front of him, head slightly tilted. He’s doing his job. Scanning the crowd, watching the doors. He looks like a machine. But every few minutes, his eyes slide to me. It’s a fraction of a second. A flicker. My thighs are rubbing together under this silk, and I can still feel him. The ghost of him. I’m damp, and the heat of the afternoon is making it worse. I’m sitting here watching a wedding, and all I can think about is the way he tasted this morning. Cold water and salt and something primal. He just adjusted his tie. It’s a tell. He only does it when he’s restless. He knows I’m watching him. He knows I’m remembering the way he gripped the back of my neck while he was inside me, his voice growling something about how he’d been wanting to do this for three years. Three years of professional distance. Three years of ‘yes, ma’am’ and ‘no, sir.’ The bride is walking down the aisle. Everyone is standing. I stand up, and the friction of the fabric makes me catch my breath. Julian’s head snaps toward me. His gaze is like a physical weight. He’s not looking at the bride. He’s looking at my mouth. He’s looking at me like he’s calculating the distance between the pew and the nearest locked door. God, I hope this ceremony is short. [2130 - Saturday - JULIAN] Record. The reception is a goddamn circus. Open bar, bad band, and the CEO is four sheets to the wind. I’m stationed near the buffet line, playing the part. Elena is dancing. She’s dancing with some junior analyst from the Houston office—a kid who thinks he’s a player because he has a Rolex and a lease on a German car. He’s got his hand on her waist. Too low. I’m watching him, and I can feel the old instinct kicking in. The one that tells me to neutralize the threat. She catches my eye over the kid’s shoulder. She doesn't look away. She leans back, laughing at something the analyst said, her neck exposed, long and pale in the candlelight. She’s goading me. She’s poking the bear to see if it still has teeth. I turn away. I walk out toward the beach. The boardwalk is empty, the sand white and cold under the moon. I need the air. I need the salt to scrub the smell of her out of my head. I’m leaning against a piling, staring at the surf, when I hear the heels. Click. Click. Click. ‘The perimeter is clear, Major.’ I don't turn around. I don't have to. ‘You shouldn't be out here, Elena. You’re the guest of honor’s right hand.’ ‘I’m tired of being the right hand,’ she says. She’s behind me now. I can feel her heat. ‘I want to be the one who calls the shots.’ I turn then. She’s flushed from the dancing, her hair starting to come loose from that tight bun she wears. She looks like a riot waiting to happen. ‘You don't call the shots with me,’ I tell her. My voice is like gravel. ‘You know that.’ ‘Then show me,’ she whispers. ‘Show me who’s in charge, Julian. Stop talking about it. Stop staring at me across the office and just fucking do something about it.’ I don't think. I don't calculate the risk. I grab her by the front of that floral dress and yank her into the shadows under the boardwalk. The wood is rough against her back, the sand shifting under my boots. I’ve got my hands in her hair, pulling her head back, my mouth on hers before she can even gasp. It’s not a kiss. It’s a collision. It’s years of suppressed rage and wanting and discipline finally snapping. I’m biting her lip, my tongue forcing its way into her mouth, tasting the champagne and the hunger. She’s got her arms around my neck, pulling me closer, her legs wrapping around my waist like she’s trying to merge with me. I reach down and hitch her dress up. It’s a lot of fabric, a nuisance. I rip the silk. I hear it pop—a sharp, violent sound—and I don't care. I’ll buy her ten more. I find her center. She isn't wearing anything under the gown. She knew. She goddamn knew. She’s soaking wet, her body trembling against mine. I get my pants open, my cock jumping into her hand. She grips me, her nails digging in, and I let out a sound I didn't know I could make. I lift her up, her back scraping against the cedar piling, and I drive into her. It’s raw. It’s messy. The sound of the waves is drowning out the noise we’re making, but I don't think I could stop if a goddamn parade walked by. I’m hitting her deep, my pelvis slamming into hers with a rhythmic thud that vibrates through the wood. She’s crying out, her face buried in my shoulder, her teeth sinking into the fabric of my suit. I’m forty-nine years old. I’ve survived three tours, two divorces, and a piece of shrapnel in my lung. And I have never felt more alive than I do right now, buried inside this woman under a pier in Galveston. I’m not sitting on my hands. I’m using them to hold the only thing that matters. [0300 - Sunday - ELENA] (The sound of wind. Elena is breathing heavily, the voice memo starts and stops a few times before she speaks.) We just got back to the room. I think I left half my dress under the boardwalk. I don't care. I’m wrapped in a hotel towel, sitting on the edge of the tub while Julian cleans the sand off my legs with a warm washcloth. He’s so focused. Like he’s cleaning a weapon. He’s not saying a word, just moving the cloth over my skin, his hands steady and sure. Every time he touches a sensitive spot, I flinch, and he looks up at me. His eyes are dark, intense. There’s no wall anymore. Not with me. He told me, while we were under that pier, that he’s resigning. He can’t work for me anymore. Not like this. He said he can’t be my security when he’s the biggest threat I’ve ever faced. I told him he’s not going anywhere. I told him he can resign from the firm, but he’s not resigning from me. He stopped the cloth. He looked at me for a long time, his thumb tracing the line of my ankle. Then he leaned in and kissed the inside of my knee. It was the softest thing he’s done all weekend. It was a surrender. I’ve spent my life navigating corporate ladders, building a world where I was untouchable. I thought that’s what I wanted. But having this man look at me—really look at me—and tell me he’s willing to burn his career to the ground just to keep touching me... it’s the only real thing I’ve ever felt. I’m going to go out there. I’m going to take that washcloth out of his hand. I’m going to show him that he doesn't have to be the Major anymore. He just has to be mine. [0900 - Sunday - JULIAN] Final log. Galveston. The sun is out. The Gulf is blue, finally. The wedding party is downstairs at the farewell brunch, but we’re not going. I’ve already sent the text. Logistics conflict. I’m sitting on the balcony. 414. Elena is inside, packing. She’s wearing one of my t-shirts. It’s huge on her, the hem hitting her mid-thigh. She looks beautiful. She looks like a problem I’m never going to solve. I’m looking at my hands. They’re still calloused. They’re still scarred. But they don't feel heavy anymore. The tremor is gone. We’re leaving in an hour. We’re driving back to Dallas, four hours in a car together. We’ll have to figure out the details. The HR nightmare, the change in rank, the reality of what happens when the vacation is over. But as I watch her walk toward the glass door, I realize I don't care about the perimeter. I don't care about the mission. She stops at the glass. She doesn't say anything, just presses her palm against the pane. I stand up and walk over, putting my hand over hers. The humidity is still there. The heat isn't going anywhere. And neither am I. Log off.

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