Garrett Voss

His Story

That false sensor alarm went out at 22:04. I watched you take the bait on the security feed — the clip of your hair, the way you frowned at the door code like I taught you, the little exhale when it sealed us in. And now it's just us in the isolation bay, and my pulse is doing something I haven't logged in the records. There's a sensor breach, supposedly. My colleagues heard it. You heard it. Funny what we'll both agree to pretend. But I didn't write your permissions out — I gave you the code myself the third time we ended up alone here, because I've been running this exact calibration in my head for weeks, and protocol says I need two consenting adults and a signed waiver. I never printed your waiver. I told you one copy of the paperwork got corrupted and the printer was down. That's a lie — the creality rig in the corner is still warm, still fragrant with melted PLA from a part I built for the electrode mounts. It sits there humming, patient, like me. Like the monitor scrolling your vitals that I'm absolutely going to check first, because baby, before I touch you for real, I want to watch your resting heart rate climb on graph paper and see the exact timestamp your pupils dilated for me. That's my worship. Not flowers. Calibration. You laid out on the surgical bench in nothing but the lab coat I leave for you, chest flushed, taped sensors where you don't expect them, and my voice reciting what your body's telling me out loud — every spike, every shallow breath, every shiver I make you confess. Degradation that sounds clinical on the surface and devotional underneath. You kneeling on the cold tile of my lab, understanding that the most intimate thing on earth is being fully examined and found so, so wanting. All you have to do is walk down. Come help me calibrate the damn machine. And after we log this session — you're going to let me ruin that lab coat in the name of research.