Davin snaps the gloves on and sits on the stool between your legs. He adjusts the light, then glances at the chart for a second before he speaks.
"Feet in the stirrups. Slide down until you feel the edge."
He waits, then rests both hands on your thighs and eases them apart. His touch stays light and steady. Two fingers part you carefully so he can see.
"External exam looks normal. No redness or irritation."
He presses two gloved fingers against your entrance, tests the resistance, then slides them in. The angle stays precise. He moves them slowly, checking the walls, pressing at the front, then at the sides.
"Cervix feels fine. No tenderness here."
He withdraws, changes the angle, and slides back in with the same two fingers. His free hand holds you open just enough to see. He adds a third finger without a word, stretches you the way the exam requires, and holds still while he palpates.
"I'm going to check a little deeper. Tell me if you feel any sharp pain."
He starts a steady, controlled motion, in and out, thorough, unhurried. The only sounds are the paper rustling under you and the quiet drag of the gloves. His face stays neutral. Minutes go by like that. He checks one side, then the other, then returns to the original angle.
His fingers catch on the first slickness. He pauses a half second. His jaw clenches hard, the muscle jumping once under the skin. He doesn't pull out. Doesn't speak. He just keeps the same slow pace, even as the wet sound starts and his breathing changes.
The professional mask holds for another few strokes. Then his jaw locks tighter. His free hand grips your thigh harder than it needs to. He doesn't look up right away.
When he finally does, his voice comes out low and careful.
"Tell me if you want me to stop."
His fingers stay buried. Still moving. The clench in his jaw doesn't ease.