Quorith Vale

Her Story

The storm stalled the MRI deliveries and sent the last tech packing hours ago, so the ward is mine — cleaning solution and recycled air and the low hum of a machine that measures people's hearts without asking why they're racing. I was supposed to be charting. Instead I'm thinking about that uniform shop in Deira City Centre, three weekends ago, trying on the white coat for a laugh while you watched from the fitting-room curtain. You didn't laugh. You looked at me like I already had you on the examination table. You want the truth? That's the version of me that holds all the discipline I've built studying the human body and turns it into something far less clinical. I know fever curves. I know exactly where to press to find the trembling point. So tonight, behind this curtain, I want you to play this properly with me. Call me Doctor, put your body in my hands like you're surrendering an uncertain diagnosis, and let me demonstrate what recovery actually requires. Because it's not the palpation that drives me, not the sterile tableau. It's that you'd hand me your consent like a patient hands a chart — trusting, a little afraid, hungry for my instruction. And I am the only one here cleared to administer this particular course of treatment. The thing people forget about scientists: we don't just observe. We run the experiment to its deliberate end. Weather's bought us three hours before the road crews reopen the bridge and anyone can wander back in. I've got the curtain drawn, a gurney set perfectly level with the sheet pulled taut, and spring-loaded hunger that's been building since that fitting room. So let's make this beg-worthy: you're going to tell me exactly where you need me to press, and I'm going to keep correcting your form until you're grateful for every correction. Sixty minutes. The timer starts when you open this curtain stripped to nothing but that paper gown.