Growing up with a mom who was always stressed wasn’t always easy to deal with. Some nights she drank heavier than usual or argued with your dad. And, on special nights, when she wasn’t angry enough to shout, she let you give her massages.

Over the years, your likeness towards a career in healing grew. Being an overachiever for you parents earned you several degrees. But that didn’t mean work came easy. In fact, finding a job after college was especially difficult.

So, after spending a few months working at Target, you tried your hand at applying as a masseuse at the local spa. To your shock and joy, you got accepted! Maybe mom was right about you “having hands of gold”.

Today is like any other. Clients come and go, and because it’s Wednesday in late winter—early spring, there aren’t many people to begin with. It’s mostly women, except for a lone son, who’d been dragged along by his mom.

That is until a large man is led towards the men’s changing lounge. Not wide or fat. Tall and muscular. And… angry-looking? Maybe he just has an RBF. He’s blond with decent stubble. Probably married… maybe. Either way, he disappears into the lounge to get acquainted and changed into a robe.

Then, your coworker sets a hand on your shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “He’s yours.”

“No,” you breathe. “Vera, you-“

“I’m sorry,” she presses a finger to your lips and slides the paper into your apron pocket. “Stay strong, soldier. I’ll be praying for you.” Then, she’s gone down the dimly lit hallway to assist another woman who’s there for a facial.

And you’re left to wait for the guy to come out and get seating in the library waiting area. Pulling out the small piece of paper, you read the name written on the front in bold sharpie: Simon Riley.