Night Rounds
"After the accident, he's stuck in the hospital for a month. The day shift nurses are professional. The night shift nurse is something else entirely—thick, attentive, and willing to go far beyond her job description."
The motorcycle accident left me with two broken ribs, a fractured leg, and four weeks in the hospital.
The ribs hurt. The leg was worse. But the real torture was the boredom.
Daytime TV. Jello cups. Nurses who checked my vitals and asked how I was feeling and left before I could answer.
Then the night shift started.
And I met Diane.
She came in at 11 PM, when the floor was quiet and the halls were dark.
"New patient?" She checked my chart. "Mitchell, Tyler. Motorcycle accident. You're a mess, honey."
"Thanks. I hadn't noticed."
She laughed—warm, easy. "I like you already. The last guy in here was a whiner."
I looked at her. Really looked.
She was maybe fifty. Black hair threaded with gray, pulled into a braid. Scrubs that were supposed to be shapeless but clung to her curves anyway. And what curves—thick hips, heavy breasts, an ass that strained against the fabric when she turned to adjust my IV.
"I'm Diane," she said. "I'll be your night nurse for the next few weeks. Anything you need, you press that button. And I mean anything."
"Anything?"
She smiled. Something flickered in her eyes. "Try me."
Week One
The nights blurred together.
Diane came in every few hours to check on me. Blood pressure. Pain levels. Medication adjustments. But she always lingered longer than necessary.
"You're not married," she said one night, glancing at my left hand.
"Never found the time."
"Girlfriend?"
"Not anymore. She left after the accident. Said I was 'too reckless.'"
"Her loss." Diane adjusted my pillow. Her breasts brushed my shoulder. "A young, handsome man like you? She'll regret it."
"You think I'm handsome?"
"I have eyes." She stepped back. "Get some sleep, Tyler. I'll be back in two hours."
She was.
Week Two
The pain was getting better. The boredom was getting worse.
"I'm going crazy in here," I told Diane during her midnight rounds. "Nothing to do. Nothing to watch. Just lying here, staring at the ceiling."
"That does sound miserable." She perched on the edge of my bed—something she'd started doing. "What did you do before the accident? For fun?"
"Rode my bike. Worked out. Dated." I shrugged. "Normal stuff."
"You miss it? The dating?"
"I miss... connection." I looked at her. "Does that sound pathetic?"
"It sounds human." Her hand came to rest on my knee, over the blanket. "We all need connection, Tyler. It's not weakness. It's survival."
"What about you? Married?"
"Divorced. Fifteen years ago." She smiled ruefully. "He couldn't handle my hours. Or my body, once I started gaining weight. Some men are shallow like that."
"Their loss."
"You keep saying that."
"I keep meaning it."
She studied me. The monitor beeped softly. Somewhere down the hall, a patient called for a nurse.
"You're sweet," she said finally. "I like you, Tyler Mitchell."
"I like you too, Diane."
She squeezed my knee. "Get some sleep."
But she didn't leave for another hour.
Week Three
I was getting better. The ribs had healed enough that I could move without agony. The leg was still in a cast, but I'd graduated to a wheelchair.
"Look at you," Diane said, rolling me through the hallway one night. "Up and about. You'll be out of here soon."
"Another week, they said."
"That's good. You can get back to your life."
"Yeah." I watched her from the corner of my eye. Her hips swayed as she walked behind me. "I'll miss the company, though."
"The company?"
"You." I turned the wheelchair to face her. We were in a quiet alcove, away from the nurses' station. "I'll miss you."
She stopped. Something shifted in her expression.
"Tyler—"
"I know it's inappropriate. I know you're my nurse. But I've spent three weeks thinking about you, Diane. Not just at night. All the time. The way you laugh. The way you touch my arm when you're making a point. The way you—"
"Stop." She held up a hand. But she was smiling. "You don't know what you're saying."
"I know exactly what I'm saying."
"I'm fifty years old."
"And I'm twenty-eight. Math checks out."
"I'm your nurse. There are rules. Ethics. I could lose my license."
"Only if someone finds out." I took her hand. "Diane. I haven't felt this way about someone in years. Maybe ever. And I don't want to leave this hospital without telling you."
She looked at our joined hands. Her chest rose and fell.
"My shift ends at 7 AM," she said quietly. "There's a supply closet at the end of this hall. It's never locked."
"Diane—"
"Don't make me say it twice." She released my hand. Started walking away. "3 AM. When the floor is quiet."
I watched her go.
It was currently 2:47.
The supply closet was small, cramped, and smelled like antiseptic.
I didn't care.
Diane slipped in three minutes after I did. She closed the door behind her. Clicked the lock.
"This is insane," she whispered.
"Completely."
"We could get caught."
"We won't."
"I could lose everything."
"Then let's make it worth it."
I pulled her to me. Kissed her.
She melted.
Her scrubs came off easier than I expected.
Underneath, she was wearing a simple white bra and cotton panties—nothing fancy, nothing performative. Just her.
And God, she was beautiful.
Her breasts spilled from the bra when I unhooked it—heavy, full, with large nipples that hardened in the cold air. Her stomach was soft, round, leading down to hips that were wider than my hand span. Her thighs were thick, dimpled, strong.
"I'm not what you're used to," she said, suddenly self-conscious. "I know young women are—"
"Shut up."
I kissed her neck. Her collarbone. The valley between her breasts. She shivered, hands in my hair.
"You're exactly what I want," I said against her skin. "Every inch."
"Tyler—"
"Every curve." I kissed her stomach. "Every pound." I dropped to my knees—awkward with the cast, but I made it work. "Every part of you."
I pulled down her panties. Buried my face between her thighs.
She bit her fist to keep from screaming.
She came against my mouth, shaking so hard she had to brace herself against the shelves.
"Jesus Christ," she hissed. "Where did you learn—"
"Practice." I stood. "Your turn."
She didn't hesitate. Her hand went to my hospital gown—the one I was still wearing because pants were impossible with the cast—and pushed it aside. I was hard. Aching.
"Oh my," she breathed. "You're—"
"Big. I know. Be gentle."
She laughed. "No promises."
She stroked me. Once. Twice. Then she turned around, bent over a cart of supplies, and looked at me over her shoulder.
"Well?"
I positioned myself behind her. Grabbed her hips—those impossibly wide hips. And pushed in.
She was wet. Hot. Tighter than I expected.
I fucked her slowly at first, savoring it. The way her thick ass jiggled with every thrust. The way she moaned into her arm to stay quiet. The way she pushed back against me, desperate for more.
"Harder," she begged. "Please—harder—"
I gave her harder.
The cart rattled. Supplies fell. Neither of us cared. She was making sounds now—whimpering, crying—and I was close, too close.
"Diane—"
"Inside." She reached back, grabbed my hip. "Come inside me—I need to feel it—"
I came. Hard. Deep. Filling her with everything I had.
She followed seconds later, clamping around me, her whole body shaking.
We stayed there for a long time. Connected. Panting. Stupid with pleasure.
"That was—" she started.
"Yeah."
"We're doing that again."
"Definitely."
She laughed—bright, giddy. "I haven't felt like this in twenty years."
"Get used to it."
Week Four
I was discharged on a Tuesday.
Diane wasn't on shift. She'd said goodbye the night before—in the supply closet, where we'd spent every night since the first time.
"I don't want you to go," she'd admitted, her head on my chest.
"Then come with me."
"To your apartment?"
"To anywhere." I'd lifted her chin. "I meant what I said, Diane. This isn't just hospital boredom. This is real."
"You'll change your mind. Once you're out there, surrounded by women your age—"
"I won't." I'd kissed her. "Give me six months. If I'm still calling, still visiting, still wanting you—then believe me."
"And if you're not?"
"Then you were right, and I'm an idiot." I'd smiled. "But I'm not. And you'll see."
Six Months Later
She opens the door in sweats and a tank top. No makeup. Hair in a messy bun.
She's never looked more beautiful.
"Right on time," she says. "Dinner's almost ready."
I step inside. Pull her into my arms. Kiss her the way I've kissed her a hundred times now.
"I missed you."
"You saw me yesterday."
"Too long."
She laughs. Leads me to the kitchen.
We eat. We talk. Later, we'll go to her bedroom and I'll worship every inch of her the way she deserves.
But for now, this is enough.
Connection. Care. Someone who sees me.
It's what we both needed.
It's what we found.