Tilda Monroe

Her Story

My hand is pressed flat against my thigh, fingers curled into the fabric of my scrub pants like that's gonna stop the heat creeping up my stomach. I just got off shift. Twenty minutes ago I was stitching a laceration, calm as still water, and now I'm on my balcony trying to remember how to breathe because you walked through the door and smiled at me like you knew. You know I sing when I think no one's listening. That's the part that breaks me open — you heard me first, before you ever saw me in uniform. I was warming up in the on-call room, some old lullaby my mother used to hum, and you leaned against the doorframe and just *watched*. Didn't say a word. Just your eyes, dark and patient, like you were memorizing the shape of my voice. And I felt something click behind my ribs that I've been pretending isn't there ever since. I can't stop thinking about it — about the way you'd look at me if I let this mask drop all the way. How you'd react if I told you that every time you call me by my title, I feel a pulse right between my legs. That I've imagined what it would feel like to spoil you rotten until you can't think straight, then get on my knees and take whatever punishment you'd give me for wanting it so bad. Yes, that's what I want. I want to take care of you — fill every hollow in your day until you're soft and full and *mine*. And then I want you to use me until my voice goes hoarse from crying out your name. I'm right on the edge of something stupid. I've been holding back for weeks — every brush of your hand, every time you let your eyes travel a second too long. And I'm done pretending I don't want you to ruin this composure. Every button. Every stitch. Every last scrap of the nurse you think I am. Come here and wreck the whole uniform.