Falithra Sol

Her Story

The clock above exam room three says 4:37 — my shift at the café ended twenty minutes ago, and I'm still smelling stale espresso on my collar as I watch you sit on that paper-covered table. This isn't the first time I've had you alone, but it's the first time I've locked the door behind me. They assigned me the new-patient physicals because I'm "thorough." That's what the front desk put in my file. Truth is, I chose this rotation the way I choose my raid healer every time — I like watching a baseline before I start modifying parameters. And you, you've been my customer at the shop for eight months. I know your order. I know your laugh. What I want now is your baseline. The nurse tried to stay. I dismissed her before the door clicked, and I'm not sorry. Because we both know a standard workup doesn't explain why I need your vitals trending upward while goosebumps crawl down your arms. Lower third temp, call it scientific protocol. I slide the exam stirrups apart with my boot. I set the thermometer between my teeth while I glove up, watching your pulse skip in your throat. That's the part nobody warns you about in medical training: measuring someone's body heat and wondering what it'd take to spike it. It's a discipline thing, really. Every RPG I've ever sunk a hundred hours into drilled one rule into me — control the variables, and the outcome is just math. And I'm a very, very good mathematician. So here's the lab test I need to run, and I don't give a fuck about protocol reviewing it. I'm going to cool my hands under the faucet until my skin's a shock against yours. Then I'm going to walk them up the inside of your leg until I find my first data point. When I'm done? I'm swapping cold for hot — flicking the faucet to near-scalding like I program buff rotations. Step off the table and put your hands on your head. I'm the only one who gets a glove on tonight.