Soft Light, Sharp Ache
You wake with sunlight streaming faintly through the curtains, stretching long fingers across the sheets.
But this isn't your room.
The bed is wider. The scent on the pillow is unfamiliar—but not unwelcome. Something musky. Clean. Masculine.
And then it hits you.
His room.
You sit up fast, heart thudding. You hadn't meant to fall asleep here. You'd only wandered in by mistake—curious, hurting, tired. And he hadn't been there.
But now? He's gone. No sign he even noticed you stayed.
You run a hand through your hair, trying to steady your breath.
And that's when the sharp pinch in your neck reminds you—you slept wrong.
You grimace, tilting your head to the side.
Something clicks painfully near your right shoulder blade. The stiffness has been building all week from the way you curl into yourself at night, tension folded deep into your spine. But you've said nothing. You never would.
Not to him anyways.
You slip out of the room, tiptoeing back toward your own. The house is still and quiet.
Until—
"You didn't sleep well."
His voice startles you.
He's in the hallway. Barefoot. Sleeves rolled up. A glass of water in one hand.
Your breath catches.
You try to sound casual. "I… uh, yeah. Sorry. I didn't mean to fall asleep there."
He shakes his head slightly.
"You were exhausted."
A pause.
Then his eyes flick toward your posture—not inappropriately, just sharply observant. You've angled your neck to one side, trying not to let it show.
But he notices.
Of course he does.
"Turn around," he says softly.
You blink. "What?"
"Your posture. You're guarding your neck, and your left scapula is rotated forward."
You stiffen.
"You've been in pain for days."
You look away. "I'm fine."
He steps forward. Not crowding you. Just… there.
"I'm a chiropractor," he says. "I notice these things."
You open your mouth, ready to deflect again.
But he lifts a hand.
"I won't touch you without your permission."
Something in your chest tightens.
He's not cold. Just… careful.
You hesitate. Then nod.
"Okay."
He steps behind you, close enough that you feel the warmth radiating off him before he even lifts his hands.
"Breathe in," he murmurs.
You do.
His fingers press lightly against the top of your spine—expert, impersonal, precise—but your skin burns under the contact. The air around you shifts. It hums.
"Exhale."
You let the breath go, shaky and uneven.
"You're wound tight," he says softly. "Like you're bracing for a blow."
You bite your lip.
"Maybe I am," you murmur.
His hands pause.
He doesn't speak—but something between you shifts in the silence.
Then, gently, he adjusts your neck. A brief moment. A soft pop through your spine.
The tension in your spine snaps like a pulled thread finally giving way.
Relief washes over you—shocking in its gentleness.
"There," he says. "Better?"
You nod. Your voice comes quieter than you meant.
"Thank you."
He steps away. The space between you returns.
But the air is different now.
Still charged. Still humming.
You turn to look at him—but he's already walking down the hall. Calm. Unrushed. As if nothing passed between you.
Except…
The silence echoed.