Chapter 3

It started with his shoulders.

She had walked in on him struggling one evening, tension knotted so tight in his muscles that even he couldn't ignore it. His broad back was hunched, his fingers pressing into his neck, frustration evident in the way his jaw clenched.

"Let me," she had said, barely thinking, like what she does for her brothers after a long day.

He had stared at her then—long and unreadable—before turning his back and muttering, "Do what you want."

Her hands pressed into his shoulders, feeling just how rigid he was beneath her fingers. He was solid, a man who had clearly spent years training his body before his accident. The tension was unbearable, his muscles like stone under her touch.

She worked in silence, kneading away at the stress he refused to acknowledge. He didn't say a word. Didn't move.

She could only tell he is enjoying it in the way his breathing shifted, the way his hands curled slightly into fists against his lap.

She found herself pressing into the muscles of his arms, down his forearms, even working into his hands where the strain from gripping the wheels of his chair had hardened his tendons.

Then came his back.

That was when things changed.

The first time she ran her palms down the expanse of his back, his body had stilled in a way that made her breath catch.

"Too much?" she had asked.

A pause.

Then, in a voice rough and unreadable—"No."

So, she continued.

His shirt was thin beneath her hands, the fabric warm with his body heat. She traced the ridges of his spine, pressing into the muscles that carried all his tension.

She felt the sharp inhale he tried to suppress.

Felt the way his body almost—almost—leaned into her touch.

It became routine after that.

Shoulders. Arms. Hands. Back.

And then, one evening, after she had finished working on his lower back, his voice cut through the silence.

"Take off my shirt."

She froze.

Her pulse kicked up, heat crawling up her neck. "Excuse me?"

His green eyes met hers, dark, unreadable. "You can't do it properly with fabric in the way."

She didn't know what came into her. She swallowed hard and reached for the buttons.

And as she slid the shirt off his shoulders, revealing bare skin beneath her hands for the first time, she realized something terrifying.

It had become routine—her hands on his body, working through the tension for days. 

But the wheelchair was a problem.

She had tried different angles, kneeling beside him, standing behind him, even bending awkwardly over the armrests, but it wasn't enough. He was too broad, too solid, and she couldn't reach him properly.

So, when frustration got the best of her, she blurted out the only solution she could think of.

"You need to lie down."

He turned his head slightly, green eyes narrowing. "What?"

"For the massage," she said quickly, clearing her throat. "The chair is in the way. If you lie down on the bed, I can do it properly."

A pause.

A heavy silence stretched between them.

Then, he sighed, rubbing a hand over his face before nodding. "Fine."

She had expected some struggle when he transferred from the chair to the bed, but he did it effortlessly, using nothing but the raw strength of his upper body.

And then he was there—stretched out on the massive bed, bare back exposed, muscles tense and waiting.

Waiting for her.

She hesitated, staring down at him.

This was normal. A massage. That's all.

And yet, when she climbed onto the bed, positioning herself straddling his lower back to get the best angle, her heart did a violent, traitorous thing.

It raced.

She ignored it. Focused.

Her hands pressed into his shoulders, kneading the tension that always seemed to be there. She poured everything into her touch, determined to do the best job she could.

His body was stone beneath her, sculpted and warm, his muscles rippling beneath her palms.

She felt the moment he exhaled—a deep, slow breath, almost like a surrender.

"Better?" she asked, voice softer than she intended.

He didn't answer right away.

Then—"Yeah."

She smiled to herself, pressing her thumbs deeper, working down his spine. She wasn't sure why this felt different, why he felt different like this.

All she knew was that for the first time since she met him, he wasn't pushing her away.

And for reasons she didn't want to examine, that made her want to keep touching him.

The massages became a nightly ritual.

What had started as simple work—part of her duty—slowly became something else.

It wasn't just about his body anymore.

It was about him and strangely, it became about her, too.

The first night she straddled his back and worked through the tension in his shoulders, he had been silent, his breathing even, his body still beneath her touch.

But as the days passed, something shifted.

He started talking.

Not much at first. Simple things—"Harder." "A little to the left." "That spot is good."

But then, one night, as her fingers kneaded into his lower back, he broke the silence with something unexpected.

"Where did you grow up?"

She blinked, startled. He never asked questions. Never showed interest in her beyond the work she did.

She hesitated before answering, fingers working over his skin. "A small town outside the city. Nothing fancy."

"Hmm." His deep voice was muffled against the pillow. "Your family?"

That made her pause. She never talked about her family with him.

But for some reason, the dim lighting, the warmth of his body beneath her hands, the way he wasn't looking at her—it made answering feel easier.

"My parents died when I was young. I have three younger siblings. They're the reason I took this job."

His back tensed slightly beneath her hands, but he said nothing for a moment. Then, "The family that hired you—how much do you owe them?"

She let out a quiet breath. "Everything."

He didn't respond, but she felt something shift in the air.

The silence stretched, heavier than before.

So she turned it on him.

"What about you?" she asked, pressing her thumbs into his shoulder blades. "What were you like before…?"

Before the accident.

Before the chair.

Before this.

His body stilled beneath her hands.

For a moment, she thought he wouldn't answer.

Then, with a voice rougher than she'd ever heard, he murmured, "Different."