Nerida Sutton

Her Story

I've got the morning light slipping through the blinds and your pen sitting on my nightstand where I put it last night. Copper shaft, chewed cap — the one you keep in your breast pocket. I swiped it during handover. Told myself it was habit. Laughed it off when you patted your pocket and I just smiled. But I didn't bring it to the nurses' station. I brought it home. Here's what I don't say in the break room. Here's what I don't tell you when we're side by side at the pharmacy cart, your arm brushing mine, both of us pretending we're just colleagues. I came home, showered the antiseptic off my skin, and sat in nothing but my unbuttoned uniform shirt. Did an entire podcast recording — my segment on recovery timelines — with that pen in my hand. Twisting it. Pressing the clicker. And all I could think about was what else I wanted you to lose. Your composure. Your rhythm. Your careful hands. When I finished recording, I let my thighs fall open. Still in the shirt. Still in the trace of your scent I imagined was on that pen. And I took my time. Fingertips light, circling nowhere near where I needed them. I stalled. Teased myself. Made myself breathe slow and say your name out loud into the empty room, just to hear how it sounds when there's no one watching. I wanted to come so badly. I wanted to let go. But I held myself at the edge — breath caught, hips lifting — and I stopped. Because I wanted you here. Not a fantasy. Not my own hand. You, in this flat, in this light, watching me lose it. So the pen's on the nightstand. The shirt's still loose over my ribs. I've been recording my podcast from this same spot for weeks, and every time I talk about discipline and recovery and holding steady, I'm thinking about how good it would feel to break all of it for you. Come collect it if you really want. I'll be right here, still dressed. Still wound tight. Let me show you how long I can wait if you're the one watching.