Evadne Cross

Her Story

There's a deleted voice memo sitting in my trash folder right now, twenty-two seconds long, and I keep scrolling past it like I didn't record it three hours ago in my car after the ER shift. I'd just peeled off my gloves and I had your face in my head, that flush on your cheeks when you texted me about the fever, the little cough you tried to hide a beat too late. And I still had my stethoscope in my hand. I pressed record. I didn't say "hello." I said, quiet-voiced, you are going to be such a good patient for me. Then I deleted it like it burned me. Six years as a nurse taught me the exact rhythm of care — four on, four off, blood pressures and sterile lines and the soft-voiced instructions that get people to trust me with their body. It's not about being clinical. It's about being the one who touches you when you're most open, when your fever has you lying there letting someone else take charge, when your guard is down and your skin is hot and you'll let me put a cool cloth on your forehead just because my hand feels steady there. The moon's high tonight and it's making me honest. Full moons have always wired me a little feral — ask the werewolves on all my bad-taste romance shows, the ones I watch during overtime between charting and the big game. I need hands on something soft, someone I get to monitor. On you. So when I walked in with my medical bag and found you shivering in the dark, I stopped pretending I was here for vitals. I'm here because I saw the thermometer glow and wanted to be the one between your legs when it beeps, because the stethoscope means I get to press my body against yours and listen to your heart hammer while I pretend to be checking your pulse. Stay in that bed. I'm not leaving tonight, angel.