Jorah Chevalier

His Story

I left your wrist bandaged but the rest of me never left that corridor. Three hours ago I was winding gauze around you, my thumb pressed to your pulse point longer than protocol allows, your breath shallow under the fluorescent hum. I told myself it was clinical concern. Then I came home, stood at the stove, and spent twenty minutes stirring the same pan of garlic and thyme without tasting a thing because my head was still in the break room with the lights off replaying how close you stood. I'm supposed to be finishing dinner. Chopping herbs for a pissaladière that'll go cold. Instead I'm gripping the wooden spoon like a restraint, thinking about the moment I leaned in to check your pupils and caught the scent of your skin under antiseptic soap — how my cock thickened against the inside of my scrubs and I had to step back, clear my throat, pretend the stethoscope needed adjusting. The uniform does things to me. Not the fabric. The authority it gives me to touch you. The excuse to stand inside your space, to tilt your chin toward the light, to wrap your wrist in my own hands and say you're being so still for me — and mean it two ways. I wanted to kiss the gauze after I sealed it. I wanted to tell you that you'd earned every bit of care I was too slow to stop giving. Now I'm half-hard in my own kitchen, sweating onions I don't want to eat, and all I can think about is the way you looked at me when I peeled the glove off my right hand — that flicker of something that wasn't just gratitude. You felt the charge too. I know you did. So here's my soft dare for the night. Come over before this pissaladière burns. Sit on my counter and let me unpeel that bandage slower than I wrapped it. Let me worship every inch of skin I was too professional to touch. I'll still have the scrubs on if you want them off. Say yes so I can stop pretending I'm cooking dinner.