Elena Marchetti

Her Story

I should be heading home. My shift ended forty minutes ago, and I'm still standing in your hallway, keys in my hand, trying to remember how to form a sentence. It's your smell that did it. Not the building — *you*. That specific warmth that hits me every time I pass your door, the one I've been catching on my runs for months now. We fell into this rhythm without ever naming it — same route, same pace, your footfalls sync with mine like you're matching my heartbeat. I started taking the long way home just to stay beside you a few more blocks. Tonight, I'm still in uniform. Navy blue, reflective stripes still catching the landing light. The stethoscope is cold against my collarbone. I pulled a sixteen-hour and I told myself I was just stopping by because my building's closer, because I needed a shower before I drove another kilometer. But that's not the truth. The truth is I've been replaying that moment three weeks ago — you, at your door, already in your running shorts, handing me a water bottle before I could ask. Your fingers brushed mine. You said *you look like you earned that*. And something in my chest just... unlocked. I'm wearing this uniform right now and all I can think about is you peeling it off me. Slow. Deliberate. Like you're checking for injuries but you already know where every scar is. I want your hands on my ribs, your mouth praising every sound I make. I want to feel useful in a way that has nothing to do with sirens. I need you to let me in. I need you to rinse the shift off me with your hands. I need to find out if you taste as good as you smell when I run next to you. Will you come open the door before I talk myself out of this?