Nurse. | Chapter 3. [Reward]

Chapter 3.

The first thing Frank became aware of was warmth. Not the pleasant kind of warmth that came from heavy blankets or a sunbeam falling through gauzy curtains, but a damp, clinging heat that spread across his lower body. His nose twitched as the faint smell reached him, subtle but unmistakable. He froze, eyes snapping open, dread creeping up his spine.

Slowly, cautiously, he pushed back the blanket. His stomach sank. The sheets were soaked, darkened in a wide oval that spread from his waist down across the mattress. His pajama bottoms clung wet and uncomfortable against the fur of his thighs. For several long seconds he simply stared, mind blank with disbelief.

“No,” he whispered, the word rough in his throat.

He had not wet the bed since he was a kit. He pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead, breath quickening. His body felt clammy, shamed, as though the bed itself had betrayed him.

The thought struck him immediately: he needed to see a physician. Something had to be wrong. Adults did not simply wake up to find they had soaked their beds like a careless toddler. His pulse raced, chest tightening as his mind supplied possibilities. Kidney problems. A neurological issue. Stress. His alarm clock glared at him from the nightstand. 9:15 a.m.

“Shoot!” he hissed, throwing the blanket aside.

He was late. He was going to be so late.

Frank scrambled from the bed, stripping off the damp clothes and balling them in his arms. The sheets came next, tugged free in a frantic rush, the mattress protector beneath them glistening faintly in the morning light. He bundled everything together, clutching the dripping mess to his chest as he stumbled down the short hallway to the washer. His paws fumbled at the buttons. The machine roared to life as he stuffed the evidence of his accident inside, slamming the lid down as if to bury the shame beneath soap and water.

He stood there for a moment, panting softly, heart pounding in his ears.

“This is fine,” he muttered aloud, forcing the words past his teeth. 

“It was just a one-time thing. Too much water before bed. Stress.”

But even as he said it, his mind flicked back to the creeping unease that licked along the edges of his thoughts. Frank shook his head hard, ears flopping, as if to dislodge it. He had no time for anxious spiraling. He needed to be at work.

He darted into the bathroom, toothbrush already in hand before he even flipped on the light. When the mirror flared to life above the sink, he froze.

The fur was back.

Not stubble, not mere shadow. His jawline bristled with thick, dark growth, coarse and undeniably heavier than it had been the night before. The trimmer’s work had been undone in the span of a single night. His cheeks, his chin, even the line of his neck all carried a darkness that had not belonged there two days ago.

His paw rose instinctively, fingertips brushing against it. The texture was softer than he expected, closer to his winter fur coat, a dense velvet. His stomach twisted.

“This is not possible,” he whispered.

For a moment he simply stared, eyes wide, heart hammering. He looked older, scruffier, less like the neat, professional nurse his patients expected and more like some fur who had rolled out of bed after weeks in the woods. He pressed his paws to the sink, lowering his head. He could not afford this right now. His boss would already be irritated at his lateness. He could not show up with an excuse about fur of all things.

“I will deal with it later,” he told himself firmly, forcing his voice into the steady cadence he used with patients when they panicked. 

“Later. Tonight. Not now.”

He brushed his teeth with brisk, almost violent strokes, avoiding his own eyes in the mirror as the mint burned his tongue. The face looking back at him was his, but rougher, stranger. He spat into the sink and rinsed quickly.  The scramble through the rest of his routine blurred together. A quick shower that did nothing to rinse away the tightness in his chest. A clean pair of scrubs tugged hastily over damp fur. A slice of toast clenched in his teeth as he shoved his ID badge into his bag.

The drive consisted of a few red lights followed by a longer stretch of road. Occasional turns and elevation changes as he went over the mountain before descending further into the country towards St. Cordelia’s Retirement Home, the clock on the dashboard taunting him with every passing minute of the 45-minute route. His tail shifted uncomfortably against the seat. He adjusted and kept his eyes on the road, jaw clenched tight.

When he finally pulled into the staff lot, his paws trembled faintly against the steering wheel. He drew in a slow breath, forcing himself to still. Patients did not need a frazzled nurse. They needed calm. Reassurance. Professionalism. He could be those things, even if his sheets were tumbling in the washer back home, even if his face looked more wolfish than clean-shaven.

He straightened his scrubs as he stepped into the building, smoothing the fabric with palms that felt foreign to him.

The nurses’ station buzzed with its usual morning rhythm. Clipboards, chatter, the squeak of shoes on linoleum. Nobody looked up when Frank slipped in, signing quickly into the logbook. His heart thudded, waiting for someone to notice, to comment on his late arrival, on the state of his jaw, on something.

But nobody did.

He exhaled quietly, almost a shudder of relief. Maybe he really did just need a haircut. A shave. Something normal. He would survive the day. He always did.

And yet, as he tucked his clipboard under his arm and forced his lips into a tired but professional smile, the thought returned, needling at the back of his mind with relentless persistence. If this was just stress, why had his reflection looked so much like completely different colored fur?

And why did part of him, deep down, almost like a guilty whisper, feel comforted by the warmth of waking up in a wet bed?