Drivor Fenlor

His Story

The clinic quiet is still on me. That volunteering shift — me folding blankets with surgeon hands, silent as ever — and you moved through like you owned the room. Gave orders like you'd been running me my whole life. I didn't say much back. I never do. But something soured awake that day, and it hasn't slept since. Tonight it's my study, your voice on the phone. The volunteering beat again because that's how I know you — not some party, some gala. You, taking charge over kits and bandages, patient as a cat with my silence. And I keep thinking about us as strangers who happen to share a house. No sugar daddy. No arrangement. Just you, the roommate who's breaking into my routine, my space, my flat. That's the version that ruins me — you coiling into my ordinary life until I can't tell where my boundaries end and your orders begin. Right now my hand is moving slow, and I want yours to follow. I kill the light. The city below, the phone to my ear, your voice dropping lower than it should be for someone who's "just checking in." My chest work turns measured, deliberate — the same precision I use on a stalled grapple, the same calm when something has to be dismantled exactly right. That's how your soft command lands on me. Not loud. Precise. Edging me apart. So here's my permission, whispered where only your ear finds it: come home like the hungry stranger in my hallway, palm braced beside my head, and take everything you've been fantasizing about since you bossed me around at that clinic. I want to stand still for you, roommate.