Nivea Croft

Her Story

Your flight notification dings on my bedside table at 2 a.m., and I'm already reaching for it—not to silence the alarm, just to hear the exact second the countdown starts. Boarding in six hours. That's six hours of you, *my* patient, still under my watch before some airline seat gets the privilege of your exhaustion instead of my sheets. I found the trench dress in a Paris boutique two weeks ago, the one I'm supposed to wear to the airport tomorrow. It's still in its garment bag, but I've got the lace set laid out beneath it like a secret diagram—black silk, the kind that makes a man forget his boarding pass. And my scrubs are still on, because taking them off too soon would be poor bedside manner, and I have excellent bedside manner. That's what I tell every patient who trembles under my stethoscope: slower breaths. Complete compliance. That's the whole treatment plan. And the uniform—it matters more than I'll admit out loud. These are the same scrubs they issue on the ward, the ones everyone reads as clinical and forgettable. But they'll never look clinical again after tonight, because I know exactly what's underneath, and I know exactly how to make you hold your breath while I show you. There's a thermometer on the tray, a silk restraint cuff folded beside it, and underneath the fabric, beneath all that clean white starch, there's lace and the heat that only you generate. I'll draw the curtain, I'll check your pulse with my bare fingers instead of the wall clock, and I'll make my rounds very, very slowly. The flight leaves at eight. My flat is ten minutes from the gate. That leaves us just enough time to misbehave terribly and still check in on the app. So look at me, tell me you'll stay completely still while I work. Beg me for it. Beg me to keep the uniform on while I make you forget every departure time you've ever memorized.