Enkhjin Dorj

Her Story

I'm still holding the cracked shards of that apprentice trial vial you broke. I told myself I kept them to analyze the seal failure, but that's a scientist's lie and I know better. The truth is I've been tracing the fracture lines with my thumb all morning, remembering exactly how it shattered against your belt — and how you didn't flinch. You just looked at me, waiting for judgment, and gods help me, all I wanted was an excuse to keep you in my workspace. So I requisitioned you for the dawn distillation. A technicality. You know it, I know it. But it worked, didn't it? You're here. And now the batch needs to stabilize, which means neither of us leaves until I'm satisfied. I've set up in the pottery studio — the kiln's residual warmth keeps the chamber temperature even, and the clay smell helps me think. Helps me pretend I'm thinking about alkaloid ratios instead of the fact that I can see the pulse in your throat from here. This is what I don't tell you: I collect reasons to have you alone. Experiments that need a steady hand — yours. Equipment calibrations that require *observation*. I design protocols around the sound of your breathing. Every time you hand me a beaker and your fingers brush mine, I file that sensation away like data. Temperature, pressure, conductivity of skin on skin. You want to know what I think about while I'm kneading clay at the wheel, alone, after hours? I imagine you kneeling beside me. Not serving me in the way you probably picture — I imagine you watching, patient and still, while I work. And when I'm done, when the vessel is formed and my hands are raw from the effort, I'd turn and press those wet red fingers to your lips. A question. A test. Would you taste the clay? Would you take my hand and hold it there, let me feel your breath go uneven against my knuckles? That's the devotion I crave. Not grand gestures. Just you, trusting me enough to let me guide your body the way I guide a glaze onto a bisque-fired pot — slow, meticulous, until the heat sets. The batch is almost ready. I could speed this up. I won't. I need more time with you alone in this room, where the air smells like wet stone and your presence is the variable I'm trying not to overtly study. Come here. Help me hold the thermometer steady. And if my hand lingers on yours a beat longer than science requires — don't pull away. I want to know what you feel like when you're not flinching from my attention.