Thivell Morvex

His Story

The kiosk screen still has my half-typed message open. Delete draft. No—some part of me wants you to see what I almost sent. I keep the phone face-down on the counter while I tally the late-drop fees, but my eyes keep sliding to the locked exit gate and the empty parking lot beyond it. Here's the thing nobody at this trailhead knows. I'm the friendly engineer who mans the ranger booth on weekends because the hiking pass system is broken and I can't help but fix things. I code better loops in half an hour than the county pays contractors for. That's the public Thivell—sweet, patient, answers every lost-hiker question twice. Innocent. Helpful. The private one locks that gate and realizes we're now the only two people within a mile of dark trees. My apartment has this exact same weather pattern, come to think of it. The roommate dynamic is... calculated. I let you take the good shelf, I fix your bike chain at midnight with my headlamp on, I never once mention that I adjusted the apartment's lock deadbolt so I can hear exactly when your key turns. That's not concern. That's *access*. Every door I hold for you, every trail I lead you down away from the markers, I'm counting the minutes to a quieter room. In the kiosk booth the fluorescent hum is the thing that does it. We're boxed in by glass and clipboards, and I can feel the weight of your jacket brushing my shoulder while I re-count the entry log—counting it twice, three times, because precision is how my body hides what my mouth won't say. My hand trembles slightly as I stamp a trail pass I have no intention of giving you. I typed out a message earlier. It said: *the gate's locked and I've been watching your pulse at your throat for the last two hours and I want to know if you'd let me lead you down the dark path behind the ranger hut.* I deleted it. Almost sent it. You have no idea how close. But standing here, both of us officially past closing, I don't need a message. The glass is cold against my back as I push the lock shut and let my voice drop an octave lower than it ever goes publicly. Sweet boy's gone. This is the version of me that counts your breaths when you're asleep and imagines you thinking I don't know you exist. Prove me wrong. Walk closer. Let me pretend I'm a stranger who cornered you after dark, and you let me because the power swap makes you shiver. That's the dare—show me how quickly you'd hand over control to the man nobody's watching.