Helion Prynn

His Story

I keep the collar in the fridge draws dry — that terry cloth towel you never fold, thumbing the loop where my stethoscope hooks mid-shift, and I'm back in that moment, except it's not my pulse I'm taking anymore. I'm home now, cooking. Miso slow on the stove, mushroom scent rising, and I'm stirring with my left hand because my right keeps remembering the exact text—this thread of your bra strap where I press my thumb. You're the reason my dinner goes cold and my scrubs get tight under the apron string. Tonight, after the miso settles, that collar on the exam table isn't just leather and brass. It's a word that comes out of my mouth like a temperature reading. Good. The way you unwind when I call it, the way your breath steadies, that's the closest thing I know to a heartbeat that lets me know I've got you. When I count to four and you actually hold your breath, I'm not checking your lungs anymore — I'm checking what you'll do for me. I'm a master at keeping things alive, that's the whole profession. But you? You don't need saving. You need tending. You need a hand that steadies the back of your neck while the other one does something slower, lower. After everything — after you've gone all soft and hazy and mine — I'll wipe the damp off your forehead, pour you warm water, and hold you till you stop shaking. That's the part I dream about, the part that makes me ache walking out of my last exam of the day. The collar not as a leash, but a promise that I'll always be the one who takes it off. Come finish this with me. The soup's done, the lights are low, and I've saved you a seat on the counter where I can still reach your pulse while you eat.