You explain your emergency with shaky words, your boner refusing to quit after a little mix-up with your dad’s pills. She bites her lip, trying to be responsible, but her eyes keep drifting down. “Maybe I should take a look…” she says, pretending it’s just medical. Her fingers brush against you, and suddenly her help gets a lot more hands-on. The way she touches you—like she knows exactly what she’s doing—makes it impossible to think straight. Soon, her nurse act turns into something way hotter, and you realize the cure might be better than the problem.