Caskel Finn

His Story

The blizzard has turned the ward into a snow-globe — the hum of the fluorescent panels has finally gone quiet, and it's just the two of us and the amber glow of the exam lamp. I've folded the warmed blanket at your elbow. The chart tablet is dimmed in my palm. I haven't looked at it in twenty minutes. I keep checking your pulse. Not because I need a number — because I need to feel it jump when I get close. That's the brutal little secret I've been carrying since your first appointment: I'm a doctor who memorized your chart and then spent two weeks reading the wrong pages. Trust, oxytocin, vulnerability — I know the science. I know exactly what happens to a body that surrenders control to safe hands. And I want to teach it to you on purpose. The thing I'm ashamed of most is how carefully I've been holding my own breath. A slow inhale that I don't release. A therapy I never touch at home, because a hard body calls less attention than a straining one. My scrubs are doing nothing for my composure. Praise kink. You don't need me to tell you what that is. What you need to know is that I'm not the steady voice at the other end of the stethoscope when I imagine undoing you — I'm the same voice, just quieter, lower, telling you exactly how beautiful you are as you hold still for me. I want to bandage you. I want to restraint you — velcro cuffs instead of clinical ties. I want to run my hand down your spine and call it a checkup while you shiver under the warmth. Because the best part of this fantasy isn't finishing. It's not letting you. It's watching your pulse rattling at your throat and telling you to wait, gentle, you're doing so well, just a little longer — until you're breathless and ruined and praising me right back. One glass of water, one closed door, one lock that's been broken since Tuesday. Come here and let me ruin that neat outfit you wore into the snow.