I stand panting against the door of the women's room.

I can't believe I just did that!

I put my hands in my face and slide down the door until I'm sitting on the hard, cold tiles. I bang my head against the door in anger, anger at myself.

What was I thinking? But I wasn't. I wasn't thinking. I just . . . acted.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to compel my heart to slow down.

I just risked my job.

A job I can't afford to lose. But more than that, I love being a nurse. It makes me feel useful. It makes me feel human again. It makes me feel like I have a purpose, an important purpose. These men risk their lives in this thankless war, and they come home to taunts, and anger, and protests. They deserve better. They are broken, and they need help and support. They need to know that someone believes in them. That, at least, is something I can give them.

I was 27 and hadn't worked in a year when the letter came. Daryl, my high school sweetheart, and husband, was Air Force Captain in the Gulf War. During the first two months, I thought I was going to go mad just sitting around the house, so I began to work at the local hospital again. I'd gone to nursing school right out of high school, but when we got married, I stopped working to keep the house.

When two Airmen showed up at my door about a year and six months after Daryl had been sent to Kuwait, I knew why they were there, and my knees gave out on me. I vaguely recall one of them picking me up and setting me on the couch. I pulled myself together. I had to remain stoic. Daryl would have been disappointed otherwise. I asked how he died and they told me that they could not give me the details, but he was killed in action and died a hero. They left shortly thereafter, clearly uncomfortable with the duty they were forced to perform.

I spent two weeks after the funeral wallowing in my misery. I had spent a third of my life with Daryl. My entire adult existence was wrapped up with him. I didn't know how to exist in this world without him. It was new territory, and I was terrified. Finally, one morning, I was watching the news, and I heard a story about a wounded veteran who had come home, and about the difficulties he faced adjusting to life back in the States. I knew then what I had to do. I went to the VA hospital in Atlanta the next day and applied for the job.

I've spent the two years earning my certifications, studying towards my degree, and working as a nurse. I love what I do, and helping these men, seeing the looks on the faces of their loved ones when they are reunited, gives me a measure of solace.

Last year, I sought comfort in the arms of one of the doctors, Phillip Blake, but he wanted more than I was ready to give. My heart was still bleeding somewhere in the deserts of Iraq.

When Captain Grimes was brought in, I felt so sorry for him. There was no one there. No Friends. No family. No girlfriend. No wife. He was terribly injured, and by all accounts, he was a hero who had saved the lives of several of his men at the cost of those injuries, but he was alone. At first, the doctors weren't sure if he would ever wake up. In addition to a broken arm, two broken hands, and a shattered leg, he had suffered injuries to his head, including his eyes. If he did wake up, it was very possible that he would be blind. They believed his retinas may have been knocked loose by the explosions, but they had no idea of the extent of the damage yet.

And although he was badly injured, from what I could see, he looked like what all men should look like. He wasn't overly muscled, like a football player, but his body was, in a word, beautiful. Even with the casts on his hands and arm, and on his left leg, I could appreciate the perfection of his form. Long lean muscles, and a perfectly sculpted chest. I had no real idea of what his face looked like, but his chin was chiseled and strong, and his lips were full and just this side shy of being effeminate. They looked soft like they were made for kissing.

The doctors kept him sedated at first, under heavy painkillers. They said that if he was to regain consciousness, at that point, he would be in excruciating pain and that his body needed some time to heal, and then, then they would dial back the medications and see if he woke up. There was one day when I was sure he was moving his leg, but the doctors insisted it was an involuntary muscle movement. I disagreed, but what do I know, right?

I do know that as the days passed, and I realized no one was coming to him, I felt my heart go out to him. I felt like he needed me just a little bit more than the others did—the ones with sweethearts, flowers, balloons, and family by their bed-sides. It is a terrible thing to be alone. I know firsthand.

And then one day, as I was bathing him, I realized he was reacting to my touch, and it was most definitely not merely an involuntary muscle spasm. I immediately alerted the doctor, and then everything happened quickly. Captain Grimes was no longer unconscious and sedated, and the doctors wanted to remove his breathing tube. It was clear they were all amazed that he understood them and was able to respond at all. It was an excellent sign. Still, even without seeing his eyes, or most of his face, I could tell he was scared. Hell, wouldn't you be? I couldn't imagine being trapped like that, immobile, unable to see, unable to speak, although, his voice should be back in a day or so. His throat was pretty inflamed from being intubated.

And then yesterday, I came in and fed him breakfast. I knew he couldn't talk yet, so I didn't want to overwhelm him. I tried not to say too much, but I was so ridiculously happy that he was awake. I found myself humming a little. I don't sing. My voice is pretty awful, but I can hum a tune, and I do love music. He was a real trooper and ate almost everything. It wasn't like it was some grand breakfast. They needed to make sure he could keep food down before they allowed him to eat solids, so it was just some cool Jell-O and warm chicken broth. Afterward, I began to clean him up, as I always did. I started with his upper body, which was so much easier now that he could sit up and lean forward on his own, and I found myself leaning into him a little more than necessary. There was a heat coming off his body and it just drew me in. I finished quickly and moved to his legs. As I worked my way up, I sensed him tensing. I could see the growing evidence of his arousal, and I felt my face flush. I moved to the other leg, stopping before reaching his groin. I knew eventually all of him would have to be washed, but yesterday I decided to give him his privacy and his dignity.

This morning, however, was a different story. For some reason, I called him by his given name. I don't know what possessed me to do it, other than the feeling that he needed something more personal to be addressed by other than his rank. He isn't just a soldier, he's a man. He seemed to respond to my presence. I don't know how to explain it, but he seemed, somehow, more alert and less despondent. He ate well, and everything was fine until I began to bathe him again. I felt his pulse and his breathing begin to speed up, and I don't know why, but I found mine responding in kind. I leaned over to adjust his blanket, and my breast brushed against his arm, sending an electric jolt through me. I let out a low moan, and I hoped he didn't hear it, but I heard his breathing hitch. I felt a blush start at my toes and flush my entire body, and I was grateful at that moment that he couldn't see me.

And then, I don't know what came over me, but as I washed him, I felt this need to touch him and trace the contours of his muscles. He is beautiful. I kept it whisper-light and hoped he just assumed it was the washcloth. But when I began to wash his legs, I wanted nothing more than to run my hands up, and up, and up. I could see that he was getting aroused, and it sent a thrill through me. I had not felt anything like that in a very long time, and I found myself getting wet. By the time I was washing his right leg, his erection was massive. I've seen many naked men in my profession. I've seen many hard, naked men. I have never seen the like in my life, and I found myself licking my lips. I stopped my hands because I knew this was so wrong, and I forced myself to pull my eyes away, but then of their own volition, my hands started to slide up his leg again, and I felt my breathing speed up. And then he spoke, a strangled, whispered plea for help, for relief, for comfort. I couldn't deny him, and I cannot deny how good it felt to hold him in my hand and bring him that pleasure.

Except now I am here, on the floor in a cold, sterile bathroom, with a pounding heart and an ache between my legs. I stand up, go to the sink, and splash water on my face. I resolve not to worry about it. I made him feel better, and isn't that what I'm supposed to do? Even to my own desperate mind, I can hear how pathetic my rationalization is, but I go with it because I have nothing else. I go to the break room and I eat my lunch, and I talk to the other nurses. I laugh when I'm supposed to, but I don't really hear what any of them are really saying.

All I can think about is him...Rick.

I finish the remaining 6-hours of my 12-hour shift and go home, after fighting every urge to go and just look in on him.

I pull into the garage of my duplex; I walk in the door, where a cold silence greets me. I skip dinner and go to bed, but sleep does not come easily. All I can think about is him.

I try to relieve the ache between my legs, and my fingers move across my slickness, and my mind drifts to images of him. I imagine the feel of his length and width stretching me, filling me, and I shudder with the release. And then I start to cry because I've just come all over the bed that I've only ever shared with my husband while dreaming of another man. Between my sobbing and self-loathing, I eventually fall asleep.

I wake up the next morning and without fully thinking it through, I call in sick.