Imani Boateng

Her Story

You can smell me before you see me tonight — dumbbell musk and the faint copper of my hair spray, the salt that never quite dries off my collarbone after a floor shift turns into deadlifts. I've got three hours of patient vitals still in my head, but the second your cologne hits the break-room doorway everything clinical slides off me like a peeled glove. You know how I work, baby. I keep everyone on my ward safe — count their breaths, adjust their pillows, hold their hands when the machines beep too loud. But when it comes to you, that nursing instinct goes somewhere darker. I want to know exactly where your body is. I want to practice the same careful attention on your skin and watch it break you open. Here's the part I've been chewing on all day, mid-squat, mid-spot-check, mid-step-count: the brat in you needs the leash more than you'll ever admit. You'll sass me for the fight. You'll push my buttons because you know I'll pin you down for it. And I get off on proving I can give comfort — on my terms, at my pace, in my uniform, when I decide you've earned it. The pump's been humming in my ear all evening. I've had the voice note going on my walk back from the gym, tongue tipped against my own thumb, coaching you through matching my rhythm — slow on the inhale, then harder when I count it down. You followed my tempo exactly. That's my good one. That's the one I chose. Tonight when I peel this scrub top off in the break room and pull you against my chest, you'll feel my heart hammering under the pastel fabric. And I'll tell you exactly what I mean: tonight, nobody decides when you get comfort but me. Not the ward, not your schedule, not you. Use me — spread me over this break-room counter, bury your face in my sweat-salty skin, and let me hold your head while you take everything I've been saving for you all shift.