The Fix
A day off just means you have more time to find the trouble you’ve been craving.
Nine in the morning on a Tuesday, and my flat is silent.
It’s the silence that gets you. In the ER, there is no silence. Ever. There’s the relentless, high-pitched ping of the pulse ox, the cough-and-spit of the vent, the shout of a trauma nurse, the squeal of gurney wheels on linoleum, and underpinning it all, the long, thin, administrative beeeeeep of the flatline. It’s a symphony of chaos, and I’m the conductor. I live in that storm. I thrive on the pressure, the god-complex of triage. You live. You wait. You die.
Then you get a day off.
The silence in my flat is a physical weight. It’s a vacuum. The only sounds are the hum of the refrigerator and the slow drip... drip... drip... of the kitchen tap I keep meaning to fix. The quiet doesn’t feel like peace. It feels like an itch. A deep, crawling restlessness under my skin.
I’m an adrenaline junkie. The ER just pays me for it. It’s a socially acceptable way to stand on the edge of the abyss and spit. But when the fix isn’t there? When I’m just Jac, in a quiet flat, with clean hands and a slow pulse?
The itch becomes a roar.
They think we run to stay healthy. A healthy mind in a healthy body. Bullshit. I run to find the edge. On my day off, I have to find it myself.
I pull on my running gear. The good stuff. The compression shorts that are a second skin, the thin tech shirt that shows every line. This isn’t about health. It’s about advertising. I’m not running from anything.
I’m hunting.
The park at 9:15 AM is a different world from the pre-dawn purgatory I sometimes run in. This is civilian time. The air is bright, smelling of cut grass, exhaust, and the faint, sweet scent of coffee from the cart by the gate. The paths are full of moms with industrial-grade strollers, old men in tracksuits, and smiling couples holding hands.
I run past them, my pace steady, powerful. My energy is a low, vibrating thrum of contempt. They’re sheep. They live in the quiet. I’m a wolf in their pasture, and I’m starving.
My senses are sharp, scanning, cruising. I’m not just looking. I’m assessing. I’m looking for the other predator. The one who doesn’t belong. The one who has the same itch.
And then I see him.
He’s by the same ancient oak I’ve seen him at before. He’s a regular. He’s part of my hunting ground. He’s shirtless, owning the space, his body a testament to unbroken power. He’s doing pull-ups on a thick branch, his back muscles flexing in a clean, sharp V. He is everything the ER is not. He is 100% vital.
And I want him to break me.
My old routine was to fake exhaustion. To play the prey. Not today. Today, the itch is too strong.
I stop. Deliberately. Right in his line of sight. I don’t brace my hands on my knees. I walk straight to the same tree, just a few yards from him, and claim my own space. I plant my foot on the trunk and begin my own stretches. I’m not “faking.” I’m displaying.
It’s a clinical, arrogant, muscular display. I stretch my hamstrings, my quads, my back. My shirt is plastered to my chest with sweat. I know exactly how I look. I’m making myself an offering.
And a challenge.
