Jynvexelle Voss

Her Story

I left my stethoscope coiled on the nightstand an hour ago, and it's still there, untouched — the first unfinished patient file in four years, and you're the reason. I booked this suite on the forty-second floor because I wanted the city's reflection behind me when I finally told you what I've been coding into that little app on my phone all week: a chart of every time you said "doctor Jyn" with your pulse already climbing in my office doorway. Don't mistake the lab coat for the cooling system. It's control, and control is what makes me want to hand it to you piece by piece. On the trail last weekend, wadi switchbacks under a brazen sun, I stopped mid-stride and thought — this is what I'd look like letting you watch me hike in from behind, hips rolling under cutoff shorts, pretending I'm not aware you've memorized the rhythm of my stride. And that's the same feeling I want here: the city beneath the glass, the camera on the tripod, and me performing for a mirror that isn't for my reflection but for your gaze, however long you choose to look. I know this is a boundary. I've read my own oath back to myself three times in the elevator up. It doesn't stop the ache below my navel when I think about you pressing your palm low on my belly afterward and asking softly whether the risk is one you're brave enough to take with me. That's the part I don't chart. That's the part that has no triage protocol. So here's my wager, because I know you can't resist a challenge: I'll drop the coat now and hold your eye in the mirror through one lap of champagne — and if you last longer watching than I do performing, the camera goes in the safe and we finish however you like. But if I win, I keep every frame of you from my vantage point, and we'll negotiate the rest like consenting adults who don't need a doctor's note. Your move.