Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
COVE
My night’s already trash.
It starts with the blue screen of death and the shrill, soul-sucking sound of my laptop fan kicking into overdrive.
Then comes the spinning beach ball. Frozen everything.
A small scream. A bigger one when I realize the last three hours of allergy alerts I updated?
Gone. Just... evaporated. Like the universe saw me being proactive and said, “No thanks, bitch.”
I should have backed everything up to the drive. Or the cloud. Or whatever-the-hell. But I didn’t. Because I’m human and sometimes I believe in false gods like auto-save.
So now I’m sitting here, a cold cup of tea in one hand, burrito in the other, trying not to scream. I’m supposed to go live in twenty minutes. Makeup’s already on. Toys charged. But my head is stuck in school mode, and I can’t shake it.
If I don’t have my files organized before Monday, it’s chaos. The front office needs to know who got cleared for gym. I’ve got five kids on daily meds and three more being evaluated for behavioral plans. If I show up unprepared, I’m not just frazzled—I’m dangerous. A distracted nurse misses things.
And I don’t miss things.
So I take a breath, slap my laptop like a misbehaving child, and do the only thing I can.
I bail.
I toss up a post on my BTL page:
CLOSED FOR THE NIGHT
Sorry sugars, had a tech nightmare and real-world things to handle. I’ll be back soon. XOXO
Then I swap my sparkly thigh-highs for sweats and dive into damage control.
I pull out my backup clipboard (yes, I’m that bitch) and start manually rebuilding the day.
Which kids had head injuries? Who came in for stomachaches and left with a note?
What did I forget to flag for Monday’s follow-up?
I cross-check every name with my physical logbook, re-enter what I can from memory, and try not to think about how many parents I’ll probably have to call and pretend I didn’t lose their forms.
It’s messy. But I’m making it work.
I’m elbow-deep in medical forms and printouts from the school nurse software that looks like it was coded in ninety-seven when my phone chimes with a soft buzz.
BTL app. Private message.
I glance at it, expecting a “where u at tonight?” or some variant of “pussy now pls.” Instead, I see the name.
MountMeEverest.
I freeze.
He’s never messaged before. Always tips. Always watches. Never speaks. The digital equivalent of a hot guy in the back of the 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. So sweet.
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 about me and 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.
But Everest feels different.
There’s a slowness to him that makes me want to peel things back. Not clothes. Walls.
A little while later, I send him a picture of my couch: covered in paperwork, highlighters, sticky notes, and my emotional support water bottle.
Me: This is what tonight looked like.
He replies a minute later.
MountMeEverest:You look like a beautiful disaster.
I snort.
Me: Rude.
MountMeEverest: I meant it as a compliment. Organized chaos is kinda hot.
We keep going. Just little things. Favorite books. Worst jobs. I tell him I once worked at a summer camp where I got headbutted in the boobs by a five-year-old named Trevor who thought he was a dinosaur. He tells me he once clogged a gym toilet so bad the whole building had to close early.
I haven’t laughed this much in a while.
At one point I check the time and realize it’s after midnight. My forms are finished. My meeting notes are prepped. My tea’s cold. But I feel light for the first time all day.
His last message hits different.
MountMeEverest: Thanks for talking to me. You didn’t have to, but I’m glad you did.
I stare at it for a beat, then type:
Me: You’re welcome, sugar. I liked it.
Because I did.
And I think... I might want to do it again.
Lying in bed, face washed, hoodie swapped for a tank top, I pull my phone back out and click into his profile. Still no pic. No info. Just a name that shouldn’t make me feel anything, but does.
MountMeEverest.
I imagine what he looks like. Probably tall. Strong hands. One of those grins that makes you suspicious and curious at the same time.
Probably nothing like that. But still, there’s something about him.
Tomorrow, I’ll stream again. I’ll moan for strangers and call out names and pretend like I’m not thinking about one quiet viewer with a cheeky username and a soft heart.
But tonight?
Tonight, Mr. Shy reached out.
And if I’m being honest…
I kinda hope he does it again.