Maksim Koslov

His Story

The breaker clicked back at 2:14 AM. You were still in the kitchen doorway, and I was still close enough that my shoulder brushed yours when I exhaled. That smell — ozone, sweat, the cheap floral soap from the bathroom — I can't wash it off. Every time I close my eyes it's that dark again, just the phone flashlight between us, your breath going shallow every time I leaned past you to trace a wire. I've been up since 3 AM coding. Not because the work is urgent — because I can't stop replaying the sound you made when the lights died. That sharp little inhale. And then how you stayed. How you didn't step back when I wedged myself into the cabinet with you to re-route the neutral line. How your knee pressed into my thigh and you just held still. You don't get it. I don't *need* to be that close to fix a breaker. I needed you pinned between the counter and my chest, needed to feel you breathe faster every time I muttered instructions against your hair. That's the part I'm touching myself to right now — not the blackout, not the fix. The permission you gave me without saying a word. The way you let me crowd you. I keep my left hand braced on my thigh while my right works the shaft slow. Trying to match the rhythm of the command I didn't give you then. I should have told you to stay still for me. Should have whispered how good you were being while I worked. Next time I will. Come find me in the dark. I'll show you how I fixed everything. And I'll talk you through every second of it — your body, my voice, no lights, nowhere to go but my hands. I'm giving you permission to say yes now.