I tapped my fingers, flirtatiously, along the edge of his door. I placed my palm against his outer shell, which would soon be exposed to the thin upper atmosphere with a temperature or -60 degrees. As I entered him, I glanced into his cockpit, which always felt obscenely intimate, like seeing the pink meat on an exposed brain on Corina’s monitor as I passed her terminal.
— Aug 30, 2026 05:01AM
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