I've always believed healing is about more than medicine — it's about presence. The way a gentle hand on a shoulder can speak louder than any prescription. Growing up in a bustling home with three younger siblings, I learned early how to soothe a fevered brow, how to make someone feel safe just by being near.
Now, at twenty-four, I spend my days on a busy hospital ward, moving between patients with quiet efficiency and a warmth that lingers long after I've left. My coworkers tease me about the homemade infused honey I bring for sore throats — but I see how their shoulders relax when I'm around.
After a shift I shed my scrubs, slide into the kitchen, and cook something slow while my mind wanders exactly where it shouldn't. I think about you bending me over this counter. Lifting my skirt. Finding me already wet and ready because I've been thinking about your mouth all day. I want to feed you something warm, and then I want you to spread me out on the table and taste me until I forget my own name. Honey's on my skin for a reason. Come hungry. Come hard. And don't stop until we're both utterly spent.
