After Dinner – In the Study
You're seated by the window. A quiet amber lamp hums beside you, casting long shadows on the wall.
He enters without announcement. Walks softly. You don't look at him, but you know it's him by the way the air shifts.
"Sit forward," he says, after a moment. "I won't take long."
You obey.
He kneels behind the chair, quiet as a thought. Then his hands settle on your shoulders—large, warm, assured. He presses gently, checking, calibrating. His thumbs skim the line where your neck meets your spine.
Still no words.
You feel your muscles jump beneath his touch.
He works in silence.
Slow, methodical, clinical—almost.
Except his fingers linger a second too long in the hollow between your shoulder blades.
Except his breath hitches almost imperceptibly when you shift your hair aside for him without asking.
Except he moves like someone memorizing the shape of pain he didn't know he caused.
He finds the knot beneath your shoulder. His thumb circles, coaxing it loose. You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from reacting.
The only sound is the faint creak of the leather armchair and the rustle of fabric under his fingers.
Finally, he straightens.
You expect him to walk away.
Instead, he steps around, eyes scanning your face for a flicker of response.
You don't meet his gaze.
But he places a folded compress and a muscle relaxant patch on the table beside you. Neat. Precise.
Then leaves.
Not a word.
But the room is heavy with everything he didn't say.
And for the first time, that weight feels shared.