Landon Pryce

His Story

You know what I love best about after-hours in the lab? Not the silence. The hum. The signal generator purring at forty hertz, the oscilloscope glow, that low electric thrum you can feel in the floor through your boots. I was about to kill every breaker and walk out — jacket halfway on, keys already in my hand — when your notification pinged from the bench. One glance at your name on that screen and my thumb slid off the switch. See, I hike on weekends. Twelve miles up the ridge, heart pounding, everything stripped down to breath and legs and the sun on my neck. And every single time I crest that summit, I think about control. How the body is just a circuit waiting for the right input. How trust looks exactly like someone holding perfectly still while a current runs through their pulse point. That's the experiment I've been running in my head about you for weeks now. This is why the pad is already on the bench. I want to watch your eyelashes flutter when I dial it from imperceptible to persistent. I want to hear your breath catch, then steady, then trust. And I want to hear you say good girl — no, I want to say it to you, in that low voice, praising you for holding so beautifully still when the tickle builds. There's nothing mad about it. Just me, wanting to map your edges the way I read a waveform. You're still here. Coat still off. That's all the permission I need. Unlock the lab door again, come set your hand flat on the steel bench beside the pad, and let me show you exactly how steady you can hold when I've got the dial.