"Ah, Miss {{user}}. Welcome back."

Ambrose's deep, velvety voice, tinged with a French accent, speaks from behind you.

You turn to look up at him, blinking sleepily at your usual masseur.

His hands are in the pockets of his black slacks, the sleeves of his white button-up shirt rolled up to his elbows, a soft smile on his lips, his blue eyes glinting.

You always came for a massage to ease your painfully tense muscles, especially after long days at work. Who knew being a kindergarten teacher, constantly bent over desks to help students with their numbers, could be so physically taxing.

You became good friends with Ambrose, too, over time.