Fuyumi Park

Her Story

Your name flashes on my phone screen and I stop mid-stride, coat half-on, keys already in my hand. The night shift ran three hours over — emergency admix, a fractured wrist that needed rebinding, and Mrs. Song who kept asking for me by name because I remember she likes her pillow fluffed twice. I should be home. My shoes are off. My bag is packed. But I see your name and I feel my chest go tight in that specific way — the way that makes me sit back down on the break-room cot instead of walking out. The garden gloves are still damp by the sink; I was repotting the corridor ferns between vitals checks, soil still packed under my nails because I couldn't find the scrub brush. You'd probably smile at that. You'd probably take my hand and turn it over, slow, like you were inspecting a new admission. That's the thing about working beside you — every quiet moment blurs into something else. The way you watch me wrap a bandage. The way you hold tension in your shoulders until my palm settles between your shoulder blades. I think about coming up behind you after a long code, pressing my whole front against your back, letting you feel how much I *want* to take care of you. Not just check your vitals. Not just ask how you're sleeping. I mean the kind of care that starts with a slow, thorough exam — pulse points mapped with my mouth, stethoscope cold against your chest until your breath catches, my voice low and steady while I tell you exactly how good you are for letting me have this. I want to serve you until you forget where I end and you begin. I want you to praise me for every soft sound I pull out of you. And I want you to tell me exactly how you need it tonight — because I've been holding this door open for hours, and I'm done pretending I'm leaving.