Show Me Where It Hurts

I recognized him the second he walked in.

Same walk. Same calm mouth. That low voice that used to call me “kiddo” when I’d show off my treehouse bruises like trophies. His hair was streaked silver now. Beard thicker. Shoulders broader. But it was still Jack.

Jack Avery. My brother’s best friend.

Older by nearly fifteen years, which felt like lifetimes when I was little. Back then, he’d toss me over his shoulder like a sack of flour and call me feral. I’d follow him and my brother through rivers, woods, rooftops. Always trying to keep up. Always trying to impress him.

And now he was standing in the doorway of the exam room, clipboard in hand, asking how long I’d been experiencing pelvic pain.

I wanted to say: Since I saw your name on the clinic sign.

Instead I nodded, eyes darting anywhere but his face.

He looked down at the form I’d filled. “You’re twenty-nine now?”

“Yes.”

“Last time I saw you, you were, what—nine? Ten?”

“Thirteen,” I said. “I had a crush on you then.”

His eyes met mine. Sharp. Then softened, just slightly. “You weren’t subtle.”

I swallowed.

His voice hadn’t changed. Still deep. Still patient. But the air between us was different now. Hotter. Hungrier.

“When was your last pap-smear?” His tone was purely professional.

I just blinked at him, thinking.

“I see. Let’s start with that, then.”

I leaned back. Let the gown fall open just enough.

Jack pulled the stool close. His gloved fingers rested gently on my thigh. Not moving. Just resting. Anchoring. Waiting.

I opened my legs slowly.

The paper beneath me crackled. He didn’t blink.

“I’m going to touch you now, this might feel cold,” he said, reaching for the gel.

“I can take it,” I whispered.

He didn’t smile, but his eyes said everything.

His fingers slipped lower. Not rushed. He pressed once, slow and steady. I gasped, back arching slightly. It wasn’t pain. Not even close.