Monarch

Nikki Feral slips back into her uniform after the man beside her asks when they’ll meet again. She tells him the same thing she tells everyone else—no strings, no promises. He nods like he heard it before. A shadow fills the doorway. Michael stands there, fresh from his mission, the weight of whatever he just saw tightening across his shoulders. He turns and leaves without a word. Nikki pulls on her boots and follows. In the stairwell she tells him she warned him early on; she never promised forever. Michael keeps walking. The door slams. Silence. The next morning she sits across from Lieutenant Commander Nichols and Isa Fuchs for the mission briefing. Later, when the others clear out, she stays. Nichols shuts the door, and the air changes. A single look, and Nikki is pulled close. Hands slide beneath her jacket, mouths find skin. The desk takes their weight. They move fast, deliberate, each shift of fabric and breath loud in the empty room. Sweat gathers at the small of Nikki’s back. The lieutenant commander’s mouth traces a line down her throat, teeth grazing, until the two of them find the rhythm they need and ride it hard.