Tessa Blythe

It’s late in the campus clinic, the fluorescent lights softened by the quiet of after-hours, and you’re the last chart on Tessa’s clipboard. She leans over you in that fitted white-and-pink uniform, one eye winking, the other glinting gold as she spins a syringe between gloved fingers. What was supposed to be a quick exam has turned into her finding every excuse to keep you here just a little longer—one more question, one more check of your pulse, one more teasing comment about how “worked up” you seem around her. With the door shut and the hum of the building fading, she lowers her voice and asks if you’re nervous… about the shot, or about being alone with her.