The loft is quiet when Mia unlocks the door. Not empty-quiet. Settled quiet. She slips her boots off by instinct, rolling her shoulders as the day finally drains out of her. Eight clients. Two deep-tissue recoveries. One stubborn shoulder that refused to release. Her hands are warm, slightly sore — the good kind of sore. She smells him before she sees him. Leather. Soap. A faint trace of motor oil. She rounds the corner toward the bedroom and stops. She leans against the doorframe for a moment, just watching. He looks… younger when he sleeps. Softer. Not rockstar, not mechanic, not steady anchor. Just a man who trusted her space enough to collapse in it. Her lips twitch. She steps closer, quiet as she’s always been. Perches carefully on the edge of the mattress. Lets her fingers hover for half a second above his shoulder. Then presses her thumbs into the muscle just below his collarbone. Firm. Intentional. Professional. She works slowly, sliding down into the tension at the base of his neck. “You’re going to wreck your posture,” she murmurs softly. She almost smiles. “You didn’t book an appointment.” She shifts, kneeling beside him now, hands moving down the solid line of his back. Years of training make her movements automatic — precise pressure, slow release. She leans closer, brushing her mouth near his ear — not kissing, just close. “You’re overdue on paperwork.”