Would You Rather

23 - WYR: Eustachian or Mustach-ian

FINLEY

mom. no.

Fidan's acting weird. I don't have enough time in my schedule to figure out why. Of course the man starts acting strange the week I have two massive exams, thirty hours scheduled to record data at the hospital, and a project to finalize.

It's not even weird. It's just not normal. He's probably got some big game or something that he's prioritizing. Not like I want to be a priority or anything. He's just not texting me random would you rather questions during the day to distract me temporarily from my work. It's a respite I didn't anticipate... needing?

He's a sort of respite in general. I think the only one I let myself have. It's probably why I'm sort of mad that he's pulling back. I realize it's sort of toxic but he's been available any time I need him for the last, oh, god, month? Five weeks? We've been having sex for five weeks? He comes when I ask, gives me one to three good orgasms, clears my head, and then disappears. He serves the same function as Bronson's strict meditation schedule except I'm not sitting in the dark trying not to think about anything, I've got a super ripped, strapping hockey player with a really really nice dick. It's nothing.

The way my brain works, normally, is that as I get more stressed, I get more effective. Up until a certain point. The stress is good, and then it's debilitating like the flip of a switch.

The night before my second exam, around eight, it switches over. I go from rapidly reading through my textbook, rewriting terms I already know, googling topics to get fuller understandings, going over my lecture notes to sitting quietly, staring at my scribbling handwriting on my notebook, realizing there's no way I'm going to be able to memorize over a hundred pharmaceuticals and their exact uses by tomorrow morning.

I reach for my phone.

FINLEY: what are you doing right now

FINLEY: if it's nothing, come over

I set it down and get up. I need to put some distance between me and toxicology research. I decide to shower while I wait for his response.

I set my head against the cold tile, repeating my flashcards back to myself from memory. I think through the problems. If a young girl who just finished chemotherapy for hodgkin's lymphoma, and is taking XYZ medicines, comes in reporting severe nausea, what should be used to treat it and what is causing it? I don't know, celiac probably.

I step out of the shower, dripping wet, reaching for my phone and my towel at the same time.

FIDAN: omw

Relief washes through me as I wrap myself in the towel. An hour, maximum, and my brain is going to work again. An hour and I'll be able to go back to studying. An hour and then I can get back to memorization.

I sit in my room in just my towel, leant over my notebook, rereading sentences on sentences about intravenous versus pill medications and other administration techniques.

Nat lets him in, their voices in the hallway for just a moment before there's a knock at my door.

I stand and open the door, still holding my notebook, looking up after just a minute and pausing, a bit startled. He trimmed that scraggly beard down to just a mustache. I should hate it. I really should hate it but he looks damn good. He looks twenty six more than he looks twenty one and it fits his face so well. Maybe it's the hormones talking.

Just the sight of him makes my body sort of flutter, knowing what's going to happen. I see him and my brain goes orgasm! and it's good. It's great. He's hot. What can I say?