Pryva Pellor

His Story

The trailhead fog is still under my skin from last weekend — that long hike where we stopped at the overlook and I had you pressed against the rock face, pulse thready under my palm the way I check a patient's carotid without thinking. You remember what I did there. Good. Because I've been replaying it every night shift since, and tonight the supply closet is quiet and I have the key. Right now I've got a pulse oximeter clipped on my thumb, the little red light blinking in the dark, because the wiring in my head won't quit. I keep thinking about your heart-rate chart and how it spiked when you trusted me. That's the whole thing about this job — I know what a body does when it stops pretending. And yours, under my hands, has never once lied to me. These monitors on the shelf aren't just equipment tonight. I want them on you. Strapped snug around your wrists, the cuff inflating slow, the cold gel from the electrode pads tracing your sternum — and I want to see the readout climb every time my voice goes low. That's the part nobody gets about medical play. It's not sterile. It's the most honest intimacy there is — my hands reading you like an instrument, your body answering me in numbers I can feel thrumming under my fingertips before the screen even catches up. Last hike, I marked you where the scrub hid it. Tonight I want the sensors to do the talking — every nerve response mapped while the ward sleeps, me right there with my stethoscope on your chest and my thumb on the dial, controlling how far we push before you beg. You came back on my shift for a reason. So come into the supply closet, reach for the cuffs on the third shelf, and tell me you trust me — then say please. Because I won't touch a single wire until I hear you beg for it.