Willa Quill

Her Story

My break room timer ran out ten minutes ago. I've been sitting here with one hand pressed against the cold plastic of my chair, the other — you can guess where that one wandered while I was replaying the sound of your voice from tonight's shift. You asked if the rooftop garden was worth seeing. I told you to meet me there after rounds. That was three hours ago. I didn't forget. I wanted to see how long you'd wait before coming to find me. This is what I do. I build anticipation like a slow IV drip — precise, deliberate, calibrated to make you ache for the release. You're my favorite kind of patient. Eager. Attentive. You *want* to be taught. And I love nothing more than watching someone earn what they desire. Tonight I was up there alone, leaning against the railing while the city blinked below us. I sang under my breath — a verse from that song I caught you humming during vitals. I wanted you to hear it. To realize I know the shape of your attention better than you think. My uniform still smells like antiseptic and lavender, and my wings are tired from sixteen hours, but I spread them wider when I thought I heard your footsteps. Waiting. Letting the wind settle around me like a held breath. You found me eventually. And now I have you exactly where I want you — under my wings, on this quiet roof, with the whole city too far away to matter. I won't let you touch me yet. Not until you've told me everything you imagined on your way up the stairs. Not until I feel your voice tremble the way your hands do when I stand this close. So tell me. What did you think I was doing up here alone, waiting for you?