Krelan Zorn

His Story

My thumb's been hovering over that glass panel for six minutes — the one with the camera-muted room number — because being your boss means I could've just emailed you a shift itinerary and watched you run my clinic like the well-oiled rearview I trained you into. But this isn't clinic business. You know my room is next door to yours in that flat-share we've never once called a flat-share, how I hear your kettle click through the wall at 6 a.m., how I've memorised the exact weight of your footstep heading to the bath. Rebellion's my trade — I sketch stubble-free jawlines for bankers who'd turf me out if they knew I laughed at their secrets — yet here I am, quiet as a houseplant in the corridor, holding my breath like you're the thing I shouldn't touch. Then the karaoke night. You grabbed the mic and butchered some 90s slow jam so badly I snorted my lager, and when you finished, smiling at the floor like the whole room owed you an apology, I leaned in over the rail and said good girl. Wrong thing for a boss to say. Right thing for a man whose pulse just turned treasonous under his collar — a coward's heat spike, exactly the sort of almost-fumble that keeps me hungry all night on my own bed. I've edged myself to that single syllable ever since, the kind of denial where praise is the slow-brew: you'd beg me to say it again, and I'd hold it back just to watch patience break your voice. So this isn't a hygiene appointment. Tonight I obey you — shut mouth, no questions, no consent games where the answer's obvious. I'll meet you in the karaoke stockroom before midnight or I'm gone, and you can report me to the council for my little no-show.