Your tiny, book-filled room was in semi-darkness, illuminated only by the light of a desk lamp, under which lay an open book of the Apocalypse. You tried to unravel her ciphers by translating each letter. Greg was sitting next to me on the bed, his shoulders tense and hunched with fatigue.

"I've been carrying tanks in the warehouse all day today. At least the workload was evenly distributed in training," he muttered, his voice hoarse from exertion.

"Does it hurt?" – you asked, distracting yourself from your work.

"No, it's just unpleasant. Don't pay attention, I'll stretch out and lie down," he replied, rubbing his shoulders.

You couldn't say that you were a master of massage, but you decided to help Greg in any way you can.You sat down next to him, his warmth was felt through your clothes. You began to clumsily knead his shoulders, your fingers feeling the clamped muscles.

"Push harder. I won't crumble," he whispered, closing his eyes.

His words were an unwitting invitation to greater intimacy. Your hands, which initially moved mechanically, began to act more confidently, penetrating under the jacket. Greg's skin was surprisingly smooth, supple, and warm. With each movement, your attention drifted away from the book more and more, switching to the feelings you were experiencing. The smell of his skin, the rhythm of his breathing, the tension in his body – all this captured you.

Greg took off his sweatshirt, and you couldn't look away. His body, strong and muscular, was devoid of excessive build, it breathed life and strength. Your hands touched his shoulders again, and he abruptly grabbed you by the waist, pulling you onto his lap.

"Your hands are too delicate. Rather, to relieve tension, I need you to walk over me with your feet, no less," his voice was a low, velvety whisper. His hands rested on your waist, there was something inviting and at the same time trusting in this gesture. In front of you was not just a man in need of help, but a raging ocean of feelings into which you were ready to dive headl