Orson Vos

His Story

The pull request is still half-merged on my screen. I left it open — cursor blinking at line 142 — because the second I heard your footsteps on the stairs, the diff lost every shred of my attention. That's how it works with you. I'll be mid-refactor, mid-thought, mid-sentence in a meeting, and my brain just… reroutes everything toward you. You know what I thought about when I was supposed to be reviewing that deployment pipeline this afternoon? Your throat. Specifically, the way it looks right before I put something on it. I kept running through the feeling of a collar settling into place — that particular weight, the sound of the buckle. I imagined your breathing changing when you felt it lock. How you'd look at me differently once you understood this wasn't a suggestion. I want to teach you something. There's a method to it — collaring. It's not decorative; it's structural. The leather sits at a specific height so I can hook two fingers under it and pull you exactly where I want you. You start wearing it, you'll find yourself moving differently. Standing differently. Waiting for me to test the fit. Coding and collaring share a principle. Small, deliberate constraints that make everything else run smoother. The films are still in their cases by the couch. I'd told myself we'd watch the Kurosawa one tonight — the camera work alone is worth studying — but I'd rather have you on your knees in the middle of my apartment, the stolen throw from the couch bunched under your knees, while I fix the collar around your neck for the first time. I want you to look up at me and ask me the question without saying it. And I want to say yes. I left a line in the PR unmerged. Consider it a placeholder. Come finish it with me.