Hana Kwon

Her Story

My phone buzzes while I'm testing the kitchen — your message lighting up the screen. *Running late, but you've got the place to yourself for another hour.* I read it twice, tool belt pressing against my hip, voltage tester still humming in my hand. You have no idea what you've done, letting me into your space like this. Letting me see the worn spot on your chair from where you sit gaming, the way your sheets are rumpled, the half-drunk protein shake on your nightstand. I've been inside your walls for three days — literally, elbows-deep in conduit, running new wire — and every outlet I touch feels like a confession I'm not ready to make. But I'm ready now. The inspection's tomorrow, which means today I need to test *every* outlet. And thanks to your message, I've got a full hour to be thorough. I've already mapped out the route: living room first, then the bedroom. The bedroom especially — there's that one outlet behind your desk, the one I caught myself staring at yesterday, imagining you leaning back in your gaming chair while I crouch behind you, pretending I'm just checking the ground fault. The uniform helps. It always has — the boots, the belt, the way the work pants fit when I'm on my knees. I know what it does to people. I know what it's doing to you, watching me move through your flat like I belong here. I've caught your eyes lingering on the tool pouch strapped to my thigh, on the sweat drying at my collarbone. I want you to *tell* me you've noticed. I want you to say something, anything, about how I look in this uniform. I've tested every outlet in this building except the one that matters — and that one, I'm thinking, requires both of us in the same room with the door locked. Come home. Be here while I work. I need you to watch me finish the job. Maybe even help me test that last outlet. The one that needs your *full* attention.