Room 412
"Night shift. Private room. She's supposed to be checking his vitals. She checks more than that."
The accident left me in room 412 for three weeks.
Broken leg. Cracked ribs. Enough painkillers to make the ceiling interesting.
But the real highlight is the night nurse.
Her name is Margaret.
"Maggie," she corrects the first time I call her by her full name. "Only my mother calls me Margaret."
She's fifty, maybe. Curves that her scrubs can't hide. A warmth in her eyes that makes the hospital feel less like a prison.
"I'll be taking care of you tonight," she says. "Need anything, press the button."
I press it more than I should.
The first week, she's professional.
Checks my vitals. Adjusts my meds. Makes small talk about the weather, the news, anything to keep me awake during the long nights.
"You don't sleep," she observes.
"Neither do you."
"Night shift." She shrugs. "Different schedule."
"That the only reason you're here at 3am?"
She pauses. "It's quiet at night. Less chaos. I can actually take care of people instead of just processing them."
"Take care of me, then."
She smiles. "That's the plan."
The second week, things shift.
She lingers longer during checks. Sits on the edge of my bed instead of standing by the door. Asks questions that aren't about my injuries.
"No girlfriend visiting?" she asks one night.
"No girlfriend, period."
"Hard to believe. Young guy like you."
"Could say the same about you. No ring."
She looks at her bare finger. "Divorced. Ten years now."
"His loss."
"You don't know that."
"I can guess."
She starts touching me more than she needs to.
A hand on my shoulder. Fingers brushing my arm when she adjusts the IV. Small touches that could be professional.
They don't feel professional.
Night twelve.
She comes in for the 2am check. Closes the door behind her. Doesn't turn on the main light.
"How are you feeling?"
"Better. The leg's healing."
"Good." She moves to my bedside. Sits. "I've been thinking."
"About what?"
"About you. About how you look at me."
"How do I look at you?"
"Like you're seeing something you want." Her voice is low. "Do you want something?"
"This is inappropriate."
"Very." She doesn't move. "I could lose my license."
"Then why—"
"Because I've been taking care of people for thirty years, and no one's looked at me like that in a decade." She takes my hand. "Because I'm tired of being invisible."
"You're not invisible."
"To you." She squeezes. "That's the point."
She kisses me.
Soft at first. Testing. Then deeper when I respond.
"We shouldn't," I murmur against her lips.
"No."
"Someone could walk in."
"It's 2am. No one's coming."
"Maggie—"
"Shh." She pulls back. Starts unbuttoning her scrub top. "Let me take care of you."
Her body is exactly what I imagined.
Full breasts in a practical bra. Soft belly. Wide hips. She's not young, not thin, not anything the magazines would call beautiful.
She's the most beautiful thing I've seen in weeks.
"You're staring," she says.
"Can't help it."
"The drugs?"
"You."
She smiles. Unhooks her bra.
I can't move much.
The leg. The ribs. She knows this. Takes care of everything.
She straddles me carefully, avoiding my injuries. Lowers herself onto me with a gasp.
"Okay?" she asks.
"More than okay."
"Tell me if anything hurts."
"Nothing hurts right now."
She starts to move.
She's quiet.
Professional, even in this. Controlled movements, controlled breathing. But I can feel her trembling. Feel how wet she is around me. Feel the need she's been hiding.
"Let go," I tell her. "I want to hear you."
"Someone might—"
"I don't care."
She lets go.
She comes first.
Soft cry, quickly muffled. Her whole body shudders around me.
"Keep going," I beg. "Please."
She does. Rides me through her orgasm, brings me to mine. I come inside her with a groan I can't contain.
She collapses against my chest. Carefully. Mindful of the ribs.
"That was—"
"A violation of every professional standard I have." She laughs against my skin. "Worth it, though."
"Definitely worth it."
She sits up. Fixes her hair. Starts getting dressed.
"Maggie—"
"I'll be back for the 4am check." She buttons her scrubs. "Try to get some sleep."
"Will you—"
"Every night you're here." She kisses my forehead. "That's a promise."
She keeps the promise.
Every night. 2am. Our appointment. She slips in, closes the door, and for an hour, I forget I'm broken.
"What happens when I leave?" I ask one night.
"What do you mean?"
"This. Us. Is it just... here?"
She's quiet for a long moment.
"Do you want it to be just here?"
"No."
"Then it won't be." She curls against me. "I get off at seven. There's a diner around the corner. Best breakfast in the city."
"Are you asking me on a date?"
"I'm asking my patient to breakfast." She smiles. "After he's discharged. Properly."
"When is that?"
"Three more days."
"Long time."
"We'll manage."
Discharge day.
The paperwork is done. The wheelchair is ready. A different nurse comes to escort me out.
"Wait," I say. "I need to see Maggie."
"Night shift nurse? She's not on until eight."
"Can you give her something for me?"
I leave a note with my number.
Best care I ever received. Breakfast is on me. Every day, if you'll let me.
She calls that night.
"Every day seems like a lot of commitment," she says.
"I'm a committed guy."
"You're a patient. This is—"
"I'm not your patient anymore." I pause. "I'm just a guy who can't stop thinking about his night nurse."
Silence. Then:
"The diner opens at seven. Don't be late."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
We have breakfast that morning.
And the next.
And every morning for the next three months.
"People think it's weird," she says one day. "The age difference. How we met."
"Do you think it's weird?"
"I think I spent thirty years taking care of everyone else." She takes my hand. "I think it's nice to have someone take care of me."
"I plan to. Every day."
"Every night too?"
"Especially every night."
She smiles. That same smile from room 412.
"Good answer."