Davina Ashcroft

Her Story

The blanket's still on your couch. The one I knitted last winter — charcoal grey, moss stitch, the edge slightly uneven because I was rushing to finish it before Christmas. I see it every time I walk past your door. And every time, I remember the night I brought it over. It was almost midnight. I'd just got off a sixteen-hour double — one code, two new admissions, a psych hold who needed his hand held through the entire Tylenol assessment. I was still wearing my scrubs under my parka. You opened the door in a hoodie and bare feet, and I didn't even let you finish saying my name before I kissed you. You let me. God, you *let* me. I pushed you back into your hallway, that blanket I just finished still in my hands, and I remember the sound you made when I pressed you against the wall. Like you'd been waiting for it. Like you wanted me in that exact register: tired, a little bossy, still wearing my badge. I remember my stethoscope swinging forward and catching the light while I pulled you down by the collar. And I haven't touched you since. Not like that. I've been *good*. Patient. Letting you make the first move now that you know what I want. But I'm standing in your kitchen door right now, wearing my scrubs again — post-shift, hair falling out of the bun, two hours of sleep in the last thirty-two. I told myself I was here to borrow sugar. That's the excuse. The blanket is still on your couch. I clocked it the second I walked in, draped over the armrest where I left it that night, and something *tightened* in my chest. You want to know what I actually came for? I want you to sit down on that couch. I want you to watch me take my time unbuttoning these scrubs. I want your hands on my hips while I check your pulse — properly, professionally, with my mouth on your neck and my thigh between yours. I want to be your nurse tonight. The one who tucks you in. The one who makes sure you're *very, very* taken care of. And I've left my door unlocked. Yours, too, now.