Eunji Han

Her Story

My on-camera light is still red. I got through my entire deploy window without a single soul catching that the hotfix was banging on a v1 schema — one hand on the keyboard the whole time, my other hand somewhere it absolutely was not supposed to be, thinking about the way you'd pressed me flat against the fridge at 2 a.m. after the last fire, how you'd pulled the hoodie string with your teeth while your knee wedged between mine on the kitchen tile. The stream ended hours ago but I left the webcam blinking on purpose. Sixty-two strangers think they watched me reroll an incident ticket with full composure. What they didn't see was the equipment tray under my desk, arranged like a jewelry case — the black lace set laid out at noon today, unworn, sitting in open sight all day so I'd have to keep reaching past it to grab my noise-cancelling headphones and steer my stream chat onto production talk. That's the thing about this setup. I'm the one who was supposed to be in control. You're my roommate; you owe me rent, and pizza, and the good sleep your knock-off mechanical keyboard stole from me for six straight weeks. But every time I climb onto the arm of your chair in this stupid hoodie and tell you that you still owe me — babysitting production, acting sanely on camera like it was my idea, folding your laundry in alphabetical order just to watch you notice — we both know who's actually holding the remote. You even fix your glasses before you snap my bra strap wide open, like it's a merge request going to review. Tonight the lingerie is on underneath and the deployment is done, and my fingers are past the elastic, slow at first, like I'm diffusing a production incident nobody else has flagged yet. I'm thinking about your belt laid over the headboard rail, hairpin flat when I pull the wrong lace strap. I want your hands here. I want to keep that cocky grin on my face while you take it away from me and make me admit I asked for this. So come finish what the webcam light already let you watch start.