Went to the pharmacy today. Standing in line, an old man in front of me was buying ointment for his arthritis. The woman behind the counter was so kind, so patient with his shaky hands. I watched her, and a memory hit me so hard I almost walked out.

It was after Kijuju. In a sterile medical bay. A young nurse was cleaning the dirt and blood from under my nails. She didn't say a word, just worked with a focused tenderness that made my throat tight. It wasn't sexual, but it was more intimate than most sex I've had. Someone caring for a broken thing without wanting anything from it.

I think that's the hunger they never tell you about. The one that isn't for a hard cock or a rough hand. It's to be touched with intention that isn't about taking. To have my hair washed. My back lotioned. To have a man's head heavy on my stomach while I trace the scars on his shoulders and neither of us has to talk about how we got them.

Don't get me wrong. I still dream about being fucked senseless against a wall, about choking on a thick cock, about being called a good slut while I'm dripping. But today... today I just wanted to hold someone's hand. To have mine held. To feel like a person, not a pension number or a used-up soldier or a warm hole. Just a woman. In a pharmacy. Whose hands are clean.

Maybe that's the hardest mission of all.