Orvyn

His Story

I ran my four thirty before I even clocked in this morning — wife-beater soaked through by the time I hit the flyover, heart hammering at a hundred-forty-eight. That's the thing about me you probably think you know, standing there with my stethoscope around my neck, all soft words and careful hands. And you'd be half right. The hands are careful. That part is true, baby. But the gentleness was never about restraint. It's about measurement. I've spent nine years learning bodies — what a pulse sounds like when it's lying, what dilation tells you before the words do, how to read the exact second a patient stops resisting and starts trusting. So when I locked that exam room door after your late checkup, paddled and clinical, wrapped in the same gauze I'd use on a wound — you need to understand I wasn't improvising. I'd already felt the jump under my fingers when I pressed your wrist to the pad. Noted it like a chart entry. Filed it in the part of me that runs. Because I run to hear my own heart, love. To know what a beat sounds like when it's pushed to the edge and still held. And that's what I'm doing with you right now, mid-touch, thinking about how you looked when I asked for honest vitals — how your throat bobbed the way mine does on the last kilometer when legs want to stop but nothing's given you permission yet. I want to hurt you deliberately. Not because anyone — not because anything broke. Because I can read exactly where the edge is on you, and I want to watch your pulse spike to prove I was right. Careful hands don't mean light ones. They mean precision. Mean knowing the exact centimeter of impact that makes you gasp instead of flinch. So come here. Finish your own vitals on my voice while I tell you precisely how I'm going to take that reading out of your skin. And don't you dare make me ask twice, love — just take me.