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Her touch is light at first. This effleurage, she explains, will promote blood flow and ease you into the massage.

You’ve had plenty of massages—an LMT was always part of your touring entourage on Goalposts, and you’d frequently get rubbed down both before and after shows—but you like the sound of Leya’s voice, and don’t mind her walking you through it.

Normally, you prefer not to talk during a massage so that you can relax and focus on your body.

But Leya gets you chatting a bit. She asks if you have plans for Christmas, and you tell her honestly that you don’t know.

Thankfully, the decorators didn’t come out to this house, since you are almost never here.

She says that she’s driving up to Sacramento to spend the week between Christmas and the New Year with her mom.

Talks about cooking a vegan holiday dinner.

Her palms glide over your back, stroking gently, spreading the oil. Warming up all that tissue.

Leya doesn’t say anything to indicate that she’s going to start targeted work, but you definitely feel the change in pressure.

Her hands are a lot stronger than they look.

She works on your shoulders and upper back.

Her thumbs and fingers knead your traps in circular motions, then she applies the heels of her hands, framing your spine.

Lower on your back, her touch is firmer, stroking down your sides and over your sacrum.

There’s the slight pressure of her forearms, her hands working in tandem towards your ribcage.

“That feel okay?” she asks.

“Yeah,” you say, because it does. It feels really good.

Leya isn’t talking anymore; she seems focused on her work.

That’s fine with you—she was pleasant to talk to, but you like to float a bit when you are getting worked on.

She’s definitely getting you into that space, her touch firm enough to make you melt, but careful to avoid discomfort.

She moves down the table, flipping the sheet up higher on your back and gently uncovering one half of your lower body, draping you for modesty.

Her surprisingly-strong hands rub your outer thigh and hamstrings, kneading slowly.

Like you asked, her fingers work more intensely on these parts of you.

Your legs are sore, and her slow, thorough attention hurts in the best way.

It’s like she has the blueprint for your body, hitting every single knot and tender patch.

“Would you like me to work your glutes?” she asks courteously.

“Yes, please,” you say.

Leya’s fingers dig into the meat of your ass, massaging your gluteus medius and maximus.

Your skin prickles in the air, even though it’s warm.

Her knuckles and elbow apply firm pressure in long strokes from your inner knee to your hip.

Gradually, she moves down, compressing and rolling your calf muscles, and gently rotating your ankles, her fingers delicate on the small bones.

Your breath catches when she picks up your foot.

Obviously, you’ve had your feet rubbed before—you danced in thigh-high stiletto boots on tour for almost two years; it was often more a necessity than a luxury—but it still feels very vulnerable when she touches you there.

Her thumbs rub small circles on your arches and heels, and stretch your Achilles tendon.

“Breathe in and out for me, Ster,” she says softly. “Try not to tense up so much.”

Her use of your nickname catches you off-guard.

It’s not like it’s a secret to the world, but most people who aren’t parasocial weirdos call you “Sterling.” Somehow, however, you don’t mind it.

Touching your body is a familiar action; she can call you a familiar name.

You didn’t realize that you were clenching your foot.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur.

“Shh,” she says. “Don’t apologize.”

She spends a long time on your foot, rotating, squeezing, and pulling each toe, running her fingertip lightly in the space between them.

It feels strangely intimate, but also really, really great.

You are pulling long, slow breaths, trying to keep your body loose.

After a while, it starts to make you drowsy.

That’s not surprising, either; you do some of your best napping during long massages.

You feel your eyes flutter as Leya rearranges the drape and moves over to your other hip.

A light, drifting sleep comes over you as her fingers press into your skin, and you don’t fight it.

You can’t tell how long you are under. “Sleep” maybe isn’t the right word; some part of you is aware of her movement around the table, working your opposite side, even as slip-sliding, elusive visions that aren’t quite dreams paint your eyelids.

There’s a quiet, muffled jingle when she moves, making you think that maybe she’s wearing an anklet with bells.

The room is quiet, save the hum of the heat and the muted sound of the music.

The room smells spicy and pleasant, and the air is pleasantly warm.

You are floating away on the minutes—you have no idea how long a massage Maeve ordered you—when her touch can no longer be connected to her.

When your brain, sleepy and lulled into rest by her hands, gets confused, and it’s Kai.

Kai massaging you with all the sweetness in the world, Kai running his hands over you to relax and gentle you.

His degree is in exercise science, your subconscious reasons, he must know how to lay hands on someone.

You get pulled under by the fantasy, and in your dreams, or whatever place you go to, he’s touching you this way.

Loving. Tender. Part of you knows that it’s a fantasy, but it feels so very real.

The hands and fingers touching you, the warmth welling in your belly.

Despite not being fully unconscious, it takes Leya calling you a few gentle times to stir you and ask you to roll over onto your back. And then, the spell is broken. Kai’s not there. He never was.

You are groggy and more than slightly alarmed by the harsh jolt of reality, even though it’s not harsh at all.

She oils your thighs and performs the effleurage, her strokes light, but doing nothing to help your confusion and alarm.

You wonder if she can tell that you have goosebumps under her hands.

Leya has moved back up to your upper body.

She massages your arms from shoulder to wrist, slow, lingering strokes.

She holds your hand lightly, her thumbs working your palm and the webbing between your fingers.

Like your feet, this feels so personal that it nearly breaks you.

When she rubs the sensitive skin of your inner forearm, she pulls your wrist towards her chest. That moment is when you become aware, with a rise of welling panic, that there are tears in your eyes.

“You’re wound really tight,” she comments. If your eyes look shiny or distressed, she is kind enough not to comment. “Would you like me to massage your scalp? It’s great for stress. I can go wash my hands so that I don’t get your pretty hair all oily.”

That’s a terrible idea.

“Yeah,” you hear yourself answer.

She steps out of the room, and you quickly take inventory of the situation.

Your heart is racing, and your skin feels too tight for your bones.

Your head hurts, like it’s overfull with an ocean of unshed tears.

You cannot cry in front of this woman. You try to pull shallow, deep breaths and will yourself to fucking relax.

Leya is back in what feels like no time at all. “Your hair is still up,” she observes.

“Oh, shit,” you mumble. “I’m so sorry. I should have…”

“I’ll do it for you,” she says with a smile.

Carefully, deftly, she unwinds the scrunchie that’s holding your curls in a top-knot.

How she does it without pulling, you have no idea—half the time, you can’t even manage that—but she does, and, then, she ruffles a gentle hand through the length of your hair.

“Seriously, I’m so jealous,” she says. “Complete hair goals. Your curls are to die for.”

“Thank you,” you manage.

She hums in response, and situates herself behind your head. She weaves her fingers deep in the thicket of your hair until she reaches your scalp. You can’t help the involuntary shiver that goes through you.

“Our scalps are so sensitive,” she comments. “So many nerve endings and receptors. Yours seems very responsive.”

You close your eyes, willing them to stop watering.

She rubs circles at your temples and the base of your neck, drawing the path with her thumbs.

Your hair falls like water over the back of the table.

Her fingertips follow the column of your neck, and press on the back of your skull.

They feel like brands, like you could physically trace the movement of her ministrations.

You can’t tell if she’s looking at you as she palms either side of your jawline.

The touch is soothing, almost affectionate, but it’s just making things worse.

Kai loves your hair. Kai played with it that night in the garden shed, at the party, when he was so mad at you, but wanted you so badly.

He pulled it from its tie and wrapped it in his fist. He’s never explicitly told you that your hair is his favorite of your features, but you could make an educated guess.

Feeling Leya touch it, wondering if Kai’s hands will ever do the same again, is the straw that breaks the back of your proverbial camel.

A great, gusting sob erupts from your chest.

“Sterling?” she says softly. Concerned. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” you manage. “I just…”

Leya’s touch moves down your neck to your chest. Her hands linger over your pectorals and then sweep down your arms. You can’t help it at this point if you spasm under her touch. Her hands come to rest on your belly. She rubs in a small circle. Not massaging, just brushing the skin.

“Sometimes massage can trigger an emotional release,” she says. “It has to do with your parasympathetic nervous system. If you have to cry, it’s okay. You wouldn’t be the first person to do it on my table.”

Her serene presence and rational discussion of your nervous system are doing nothing to make you feel like this is okay.

Your chest is heaving and threatening to break with the force of the storm inside it.

Don’t cry, you yell internally. Come the fuck on!

But your body has other ideas. The tears are streaming down your cheeks and falling into your ears, wetting your hair.

“Do you need to talk?” Leya asks. “I know it’s not why I’m here, but I’m willing…”

Those words—her pity for you—are what finally do you in.

Blindly, you sit straight up and swing your legs over the table so abruptly that you are dimly worried it will collapse.

You fumble with the sheet at your waist, although exposing your dick couldn’t possibly make the situation any worse.

This is so much more embarrassing than nudity, this hysterical crying fit that’s crashing over you like a wave.

It grips your stomach in its fist and rings your head like a bell.

You double over on yourself, shoulders quaking, and howl into your hands.

Your fists are full of salt, slippery and wet with saline.

Still, Leya doesn’t leave. She isn’t repelled by your anguish. Out of the corner of your eye, you see her briskly rubbing her oily hands with a towel. Then she’s at your side, her hand on your shoulder.

“It’s okay,” she says, like she’s calming a frightened animal. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’m here.”

“It’s not okay,” you insist, in a wave of trembling, snotty, agony. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

“Sorry?” she repeats, bemused. “You don’t have to be sorry. Please don’t apologize for feeling strong emotions. I don’t care who you are, Sterling. It’s okay to break down sometimes.”

She’s telling you exactly the right thing for the situation, you know, but she doesn’t understand. Those phrases—the apologies—bubble from your lips like a torrent. They aren’t meant for her, though. Leya can’t possibly know. She unlocked them, but they don’t belong to her.

It’s abjectly mortifying. You are debilitated by your sorrow, a crying mess doubled over on himself.

At any point, she could pull out her phone and shoot a video.

Snap a few pics. You would be helpless to stop her.

It’s dizzying to think how much such a story would command from the gossip rags. STERLING GRAYSON brEAKS DOWN!

“Shh,” she hums. “Shh. Just let it out, Ster. I’ll stay here all afternoon if I need to.”

Ultimately, it doesn’t take all afternoon.

From beginning to end, your tears last for maybe fifteen minutes, which seems like an eternity when you are naked and vulnerable in front of a stranger.

The moment you can gather yourself sufficiently, you ask Leya to leave the room and tie your robe back on with shaking hands.

Your eyes still clouded by tears, you fumble a few high-denomination bills into her hand and close her fingers, ignoring her protests.

“For your trouble,” you say.

The worst of the storm has passed, but your eyes are still damnably teary when Leya bids you farewell and leaves you alone.

There’s a mirror in the room where she was set up, the room that still smells like incense and is dark from the drawn blinds.

Your face looks unfamiliar, swollen and red with tears and mucus and sadness.

You cried in front of a stranger. You don’t cry in front of anyone . Maeve has never seen you cry. Cal has never seen you cry. Your family hasn’t seen it since you were little.

This, you tell your reflection, must be what rock bottom feels like.