Calista Moreau

Her Story

I just locked the clinic door after the late volunteer shift. My fingers still smell like you — no, that's chamomile oil from the facial room, but I'm blurring the two on purpose now because I can't stop touching myself thinking about how you looked under my hands tonight. You were so still. So trusting. Every exhale you gave when I traced your jaw made me press my thighs together under my tunic. I told myself it was professional — the warm towels, the steam, the glide of oil. But the whole time I was cataloguing you. The way your pulse jumped near your ear. How you softened into my palms like you knew I'd catch you. And I wanted to keep you there. On that bed. Under me. Praising every breath you took until you couldn't tell where my voice ended and your skin started. That's the part I keep coming back to now — my hand pressed between my legs in the staff room, still in my name badge and wrinkled scrubs, biting my own lip so the other volunteers wouldn't hear me whisper your name into the dark. I didn't let myself finish. I want that with you. Not alone. I want you in that treatment room again, on your back, while I tell you exactly how beautiful you are when you let go. So I'm still wet. Still waiting. Still holding the edge for you. Come finish this.