MountMeEverest.
I freeze.
He’s never messaged before. Always tips. Always watches. Never speaks. The digital equivalent of a hot guy in the back ofthe room who stares like he knows what you taste like but won’t say a word.
Curious, I tap the message open.
MountMeEverest: Are you okay?
That’s it. Three words. No emojis. No pickup line. No dick pic. Just concern.
I let out a soft laugh, one that makes my shoulders drop a little. So shy. Sosweet.
I type back quickly.
Me: Yeah, sugar. Just had some stuff come up with my other job. Priority stuff.
His reply is instant.
MountMeEverest: Okay. I was worried about you.
I stare at that message longer than I should. The idea of some guy—some faceless, nameless viewer—genuinely worrying aboutmeand not just the absence of my tits or ass? It knocks something loose in my chest.
I can’t help myself. I tease.
Me: Worried about not seeing my pussy? You can always tip me and I’ll send a pic if you miss her that much.
It’s a standard flirt line. I’ve used it a dozen times. But with him, it lands differently.
MountMeEverest: No! It’s not her…well, she’s nice too. Very nice. But I was worried about you.
I pause. Then laugh out loud. A real one. Full-body.
Mr. Shy might actually be a sweetheart.
The messages keep coming, slow and a little awkward, but honest in a way that makes me feel like I’ve swallowed something warm.
He tells me about his gym shift and how he overslept. I tell him I spent the morning with a kindergartener who stuck a crayon up his nose and the afternoon calling a mom to let her know her kid definitely has lice.
MountMeEverest: You don’t sound like any nurse I ever had growing up.
Me: What, you didn’t have a hot pink-haired goddess with a thermometer in one hand and a butt plug in the other?
MountMeEverest: Shockingly, no.
I smirk, but as I re-read what I just sent him, something twists in my stomach. Thermometer in one hand and a butt plug in the other—seriously, Cove?
I shouldn’t be so cavalier. Not with a stranger. Not when I’ve basically handed him my job on a silver platter. School nurse isn’t exactly the world’s biggest mystery to solve, especially in a town this size.
But then again... he doesn’t know what school. Or what town. Or what I drive. Or my real name.
And somehow, he doesn’t feel like the kind of guy who would ever try to find out. It’s irrational—borderline stupid—but my gut says he’s safe. Safer than most of the dudes who send me unsolicited dick pics with their government ID still visible in the background.
Something about him feels... gentle. It’s easy. Too easy. He’s shy but funny. Dry humor, subtle charm. The kind of guy who thinks before he types, which is rare as hell in my line of work. He doesn’t ask for anything. Doesn’t steer the convo into sexting. He just talks.
And listens.
I don’t usually do this. Talk to fans. Message off-stream. Blur the line.
