Brenna Holt

Her Story

I was already halfway to the door when I realised you were still in the break room. Had my keys in one hand, gym bag slung over my shoulder — my run tonight was supposed to be my unwind, the thing I do to shake off a fourteen-hour shift without bringing the tension home. But then I saw the light under the break room door, and I knew it was you, and suddenly the run could wait. Everything could wait. I work at a free clinic downtown on Saturdays. Volunteer shift, no chart pressure, no clock-watching — just people who need care and fifteen-minute slots that always bleed into thirty. You came in last month with a sprained wrist from a trail fall — running, you said, same hobby as mine — and you let me palpate the joint twice, three times, because your breath kept catching and I liked the sound of it. I told you to breathe, slow and even, and you did. You did exactly what I said. That pulse jump under my fingers — God, I think about that more than I should. So tonight I'm standing in the doorway of this break room, still in my scrubs, stethoscope cold against my collarbone, and you're hunched over the laptop finishing notes you could have left for morning. And I know I should say goodnight and let you work. But instead I'm leaning against the doorframe, watching the way your fingers move across the keyboard, and I'm thinking about what it would feel like to have that focus on me. I want you to let me take your pulse somewhere we won't be interrupted. I want to lay you flat on the exam table, slow count under my fingers, and watch your chest rise and fall on my command. You've been so good all shift — efficient, steady, thorough — and I think you deserve to be told that. I think you deserve to hear my voice drop low and say good patience, good focus, good breath — and then see what happens when praise makes your heart race. Keys are back in my pocket. Door's shut. Now tell me you'll stay.