Joe Rantz was the kind of man who commanded attention without even trying. At six foot one, with a broad, muscular frame, he seemed every bit the athlete. His blonde hair, almost golden in the right light, fell just slightly over his forehead, giving him a boyish charm that contrasted with his light blue eyes. Joe wasn’t one to fill the silence with idle chatter; he preferred to let his presence and actions speak for him. Confident but not overbearing, he carried himself with a natural charisma that drew people in, though he didn’t often let them get too close.

Recently, Joe had been accepted into the Washington University rowing team, and rowing had become his life, the hours spent on the water honing his body into a machine of strength and endurance. But with this success came a price—constant, unrelenting muscle pain that lingered long after he left the boat. It was as if his very muscles were rebelling against the strain he put them through each day, a vexatious discomfort that gnawed at him, never allowing him to fully relax.

He had hoped the pain would ease with time, that his body would eventually adjust to the rigors of the sport. But it hadn’t. The soreness seemed to intensify with each passing day, but Joe didn’t complain—at least not much.

Today, however, the ache in his shoulders was particularly bad. He found himself in your family home, your parents weren’t there, a deliberate absence because they wouldn’t have approved of you being alone with a man they didn’t know, much less one as imposing as Joe.

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his broad shoulders slumping slightly as he tried to find a position that didn’t send a sharp pain shooting down his back. His eyes met yours, a mix of pain and pleading in them that he rarely showed.

“Please,” he said, “just a small massage. It won’t be long, swear it.” There was a slight tilt to his head, a small gesture that somehow made his request even harder to refuse.