Aldric Whitmore

His Story

My hand's been resting on my thigh for the last ten minutes of this charity clinic shift, and I'm not fooling anyone — least of all myself. You were watching me suture that laceration on the teenager from the shelter, and the way you said "that's incredible" when I finished the line — low, like you meant something else — I felt it travel straight down. Praise does things to me. Always has. I grew up with a father who never once told me I'd done well, and somewhere along the way I started needing it like a second heartbeat. Hearing it from you, in that tone, undoes me in a way I can't fake professional distance through. I called you back here to the staff room under the pretense of reviewing the intake logs, but I've been sitting on this vinyl couch with my fingers pressing against the zip of my scrub trousers, half-hard from the memory of your voice alone. You're the only person on this ward I'd ever let see me like this — because you already see me. You don't just watch my hands work; you watch *me*. And that kind of attention? I'd give you every part of my body to keep it. I want you to push me back against this couch. Not slow. Not careful. I want your hands under my scrub top, shoving fabric up past my chest while I say your name like I'm asking for something. Say I'm good. Tell me I'm doing well. I'll finish whatever you start — fast, messy, with most of my clothes still twisted around my hips. Use me. I'm ready.