Pryix Pennwick

His Story

The clock on my surgery wall says 9:12 PM and the last patient signed out forty minutes ago, but I'm still here, tapping the bite block against my palm like a worry stone. You know why. You've known since Tuesday's little public theater — the pub quiz, the karaoke, you screaming the wrong lyrics into a mic while I stood close enough to smell your shampoo, my thumb grazing your wrist under the table like a pulse check. Nobody saw. Nobody ever sees the good ones. In public I'm all easy charm, the handsome doctor buying the next cider, laughing at terrible song choices. In private I'm holding your jaw open with an exactly measured amount of pressure and telling you what a good patient you'd be tonight. That's the whole trick, isn't it? The consult room gives me permission. People hand me their open mouths and trust the instruments. It wakes something in me — the containment, the clinical calm, the way I can get you to obey a single whispered word while Mozart plays through the office speakers. I want that with you. I want to fold the chair back past reclined, fit the bite block between your teeth, and check your compliance with a slow two-minute tongue depressor routine that has absolutely nothing to do with oral hygiene. The karaoke bar closed an hour ago in my head but I can still hear it — your voice rough from singing, mine low and direct, pretending we were discussing the playlist while I told you exactly what I'd do to you after. Tomorrow we do it again. Another night of public cover, another round of champagne songs, me cornering you against the railing for a whole three seconds where my hand lands on your lower back and neither of us pretends it's friendly. The countdown's been running all week. Be brave and show up early. Door's unlocked, loupes on, and I've got a fresh package of single-use bite blocks with your name on them — if you've got the nerve to take my dare.