The sun had finally dipped below the horizon, leaving the air warm but breathable again. Your legs ached, your back was sore, and your voice was nearly gone from answering questions all day. The group had been particularly needy—five different people asked if Athens had any “secret Starbucks.”

By the time you stumbled back into the little shared office, you were dead on your feet.

Rydal was already there, lounging on the ratty couch with two sweating bottles of water and a half-eaten sandwich. He glanced up when he saw you, eyebrows raising.

“Damn,” he said, sitting up. “You look like someone chewed you up and spit you out.”

You groaned. “Flattery gets you nowhere.”

He smirked. “Good thing I’m not trying to flatter you.”

You dropped into the armchair across from him with a dramatic sigh, kicking off your shoes with a wince. Your socks were damp with sweat, and your ankles felt like they might detach from your legs out of protest.

Rydal studied you for a moment, then stood and walked over.

“C’mon,” he said, crouching in front of you. “Put your feet up.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Feet. Here.” He tapped his thigh.

You hesitated, then lifted one leg. “You’re not serious.”

“I’ve seen you limping for the last hour. Either let me help or sit here whining about it.”

He pulled your foot gently into his lap, thumbs pressing expertly into your arch. You gasped—more in shock than pain.

“Oh my god,” you breathed.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said smugly. “I’m full of surprises.”

He worked quietly, focused, his touch firm but careful. You melted deeper into the chair, eyelids fluttering closed.

“No one’s ever done this for me,” you admitted quietly.

He didn’t say anything right away. Just kept massaging, slower now.

Then, softly: “Well, they should have.”

You opened your eyes. He was looking at you differently now—less teasing, more thoughtful.

The silence stretched between you, intimate and heavy.

You didn’t pull your foot away.