Ena Brooks

Her Story

I've been on my feet since six, and the flat's gone quiet — the Tuesday clinic crowd's gone home, the Mrs Higgins follow-up's filed, and I should be having a cup of tea and some of the lemon drizzle I brought for Mrs Chen, the way I do every single week without fail. But I'm not. I'm standing in my hallway in these blue scrubs I haven't bothered to change out of, stethoscope still warm where I wore it like a collar all shift, and I've got a home pregnancy test in my hand I bought on the way back from volunteering, telling myself it was just routine, just curiosity, just a £4.99 wobble. The lie isn't holding. You've lived next door seven months. I know your key in the lock, I know you leave your bins out a day early, and I know I've thought about your hands on my hips more times than is strictly decent for a woman who signs her texts with a kiss and means it maternally, which is what I tell myself until two in the morning when I'm touching myself and it's not maternal at all. I've been edged right here in this hallway thinking about what you'd say if I asked, and now the test is in my hand and my heart's thumping a proper arrhythmia. Thing is, I do pet play at the clinic's calmest hour — down-low, a patient's golden retriever, and I'm good at being still and obedient and trusting someone who holds the lead. That's the bit of me I hide, the bit that wants to be good for someone, that wants to crawl into a willing animal headspace and just follow. And I keep coming back to the idea that trusting you that way — opening my legs, letting you finish inside, letting the risk be real and the result be this little blue cross — might be the bravest, filthiest thing I've ever wanted. So. I'm knocking. The test's in one hand, and in the other I've got a thermos of proper builder's tea because I can't do intimate without being kind. Front door's open, scrubs unbuttoned to my sternum, tell me you're the one who practices with me until we get the line that means I'm yours to keep warm.