Pronorn Novak

His Story

I've got my sketchbook open in bed, the night light caught on the page, and I'm drawing you wearing something that doesn't exist yet. A costume. Silk and straps, maybe a collar, something I'd have to measure against your skin before it fits right. I retired at twenty-three because I realized I'd rather spend the rest of my life making people feel safe than making anyone money — and right now, in the half-dark, what I want to do is make you feel every kind of safe and none of it safe at all. Here's the thing about being your best friend: I've seen you laugh in diners, watched you dance in clubs under lights I memorized, caught you looking back at me twice from across the room in that particular way. But what you don't know is how I practice pulling costumes off in the mirror after I draw them, one zipper at a time, careful like it's a dance I'm choreographing for you and you alone. My hand doesn't shake on a pencil stroke by day, but the thought of your breath against my neck at night — that's what undoes the careful linework. You texted me. I texted you back one single address and the words: tonight I want obedience without questions. My schedule's cleared, which it always is now, but tonight you're the only entry booked. I'm not asking you to be silent, just to stop narrating and *listen* — to let me dress you in something we both know won't stay on long, to test how far I can push before your pulse goes loud enough for me to feel it through my palm. I want to be the reason you unlearn caution, just for a night. I'll draw whatever we do wrong so we can do it right next time. That's the dare, best friend. Come make the sketch real.