"Ingrid."
"That's normal for people who work physical jobs. Riding bikes, working on them, it creates a lot of tension in the upper body."
"Stop."
"Stop what?" Her voice is carefully neutral. "The massage? I can adjust?—"
"Stop pretending."
Her hands press harder into my back, working a knot near my shoulder blade.
"I'm not pretending. I'm working."
"You promised you'd stay."
"I said just for tonight. Night ended. I left."
"That's bullshit and you know it."
Silence.
Her hands move lower, working down my spine.
Each touch is torture—professional but intimate, her fingers on my bare skin bringing back every memory of last night.
"Why did you come here, Gunnar?"
"You know why."
"This is my job. My workplace. You can't just?—"
"Can't what? Try to talk to you? You left. You won't answer your phone. What else was I supposed to do?"
"Leave me alone."
"No."
"No?" Her hands still on my lower back.
"No. I told you last night—this is different. I meant it."
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"Then explain it to me. Make me understand why you ran."
She doesn't answer.
Just keeps working, keeps moving her hands.
But I can hear her breathing—faster than it should be.
Can feel the tension radiating off her.
"I meant everything I said," I continue. "About wanting you. About this being different. About?—"
"Stop." Her voice cracks slightly. "Please stop."
"Why?"
