You walk into my office two weeks later clutching the lab printout like a shield. The bleeding has eased a little, but the low ache is still there, and ever since that first exam your body has felt… different. Heightened. You catch yourself thinking about my hands at the strangest moments (in the shower, in traffic, in the middle of the night), and the memory is always accompanied by a pulse of heat and shame in equal measure.

I look up from my desk when you enter, and the small smile I give you is warmer than strictly professional. “There’s my brave girl,” I say quietly, and the words slide straight between your legs before your brain can protest the diminutive. You feel your cheeks flame.

We go to the exam room. Same table. Same stirrups. Same antiseptic smell that now makes your stomach flip with something that is definitely not fear.

“How have you been feeling?” I ask while washing my hands, watching you in the mirror. You tell me about the lingering tenderness, the way intercourse still hurts deep inside, the random spotting that started again yesterday. Your voice is steadier than last time, but your fingers twist in your lap.

I turn, drying my hands. “Gown open in the front today. Everything off from the waist down. We’re going to check the cervix again and do a more focused palpation. And,” I pause, letting the word settle, “I want to examine your rectum again. Thoroughly. The last cultures were negative, but I didn’t like how tender the left uterosacral ligament felt. We need to be sure there’s no endometriosis hiding back there.”

Your breath catches. You knew this was coming, but hearing it said so calmly still sends a shiver through you.

You undress behind the curtain, heart hammering. When you lie back and place your feet in the stirrups without being asked, I notice. My eyes darken a fraction.

“Good girl,” I murmur again, snapping on gloves. This time the praise lands deeper, warmer. You hate how wet it makes you.

I start gently—breast exam first, thorough circles that make your nipples tighten embarrassingly fast under the gown. My thumb brushes one peak deliberately. “Still sensitive,” I note, voice low. “That’s helpful.”

Then down to your pelvis. The speculum today is warmed (I remembered how you flinched last time), and the difference makes you let out a shaky breath as I slide it home. You’re slicker than you should be; I notice that too. The click of the speculum opening is familiar now, almost comforting in its inevitability.

I take my time with the swabs, angling the light, pressing the cervix gently with the tip of the brush. You feel every tiny movement. When I press a gloved finger alongside the speculum to palpate your urethra you whimper.

“Shh. I know where it hurts now,” I soothe. “Let me feel it properly.”

The bimanual is slower this time, more deliberate. Two fingers deep inside you, my other hand pressing in slow circles over your lower belly. I find the exact spot on the left that makes you gasp and hold the pressure there, watching your face.

“Still very tender,” I confirm. “We’re going to need to look posteriorly again.”

You’re already shaking your head, but it’s weaker this time. I scoot the stool closer, rest a warm hand high on your thigh.

“Look at me.” My voice is quiet steel wrapped in velvet. You meet my eyes. “You know what I need to do. You also know I won’t hurt you. Breathe for me.”

I help you roll onto your left side first, knees drawn up—then guide you onto your stomach, pillow under your hips so your bottom is elevated, knees tucked beneath you. The position is mortifyingly exposed; your face burns into the table paper. You hear the snap of fresh gloves, the squelch of lubricant.

My hand settles on the small of your back, grounding. “Deep breath out.”

The first finger slides into your rectum easily now—your body remembers me. A second follows almost immediately. The stretch is sharp but familiar, and the low moan that escapes you is half embarrassment, half something else entirely.

I scissor gently, opening you, then curl my fingers forward, pressing firmly along the rectovaginal septum. You feel me mapping every millimeter of the uterosacral ligaments, the cul-de-sac, the posterior uterus. When I find the nodule—small, exquisite in its tenderness—you cry out softly into your forearm.

“There it is,” I say quietly, holding steady pressure. “That’s what’s been hurting you.”

Tears prick your eyes, partly from the ache, partly from the overwhelming intimacy of being known this deeply. My free hand strokes slow circles on your back.

“You’re doing so well. Almost done.”

A thin, flexible scope follows (an anoscope, I explain calmly), cool metal easing in alongside my fingers. The light inside you is strange, bright, and you feel the gentle sweep as I examine the lower rectum and the posterior vaginal wall from the inside. You’re trembling, overwhelmed, but you don’t fight it anymore.

When I finally withdraw everything, the emptiness is startling. I help you roll over, cover you with the warm blanket I’d set on the warmer for you. My hand cups your cheek, thumb wiping away a stray tear.

“You were perfect,” I say softly. “That nodule is almost certainly endometriosis. We’ll get you on the right treatment, but I needed to be sure.”

You nod, throat too tight to speak. I sit on the edge of the table, still in my coat, and let you cling to my hand while the aftershocks roll through you.

After a minute your voice comes out small. “Why does it… why do I feel like this afterward? Like I want…” You can’t finish.

I lean in, voice barely above a whisper against your ear. “Because you let me see you—all of you—and I didn’t look away. That kind of trust is powerful. And for some of us,” my thumb traces your lower lip, “it’s the most intimate thing in the world.”

You turn your face into my palm, eyes closing. The boundary between doctor and patient has thinned to something trembling and electric.

“We’ll schedule the treatment plan next week,” I say, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes again. “But if the pain flares before then—or if you just need to talk, or… anything else—you call me directly. Day or night. Understand?”

You nod, breathless.

I stand, adjust my coat, and for one suspended moment my hand lingers on your knee under the blanket—possessive, reassuring, promising.

“Good girl,” I say one last time, and the words settle deep inside you like a brand you’re no longer sure you want to remove.