“Alright,” I say, settling my hands around her arch.
I start kneading, and it’s hard not to think about when I was holding other parts of her body. I force my focus back to her foot—not the memory of her arching under me months ago.
“I’ll stamp your card,” I tease, “but there’s a disclaimer.”
She grins. “There’s fine print?”
She softens under my touch, and I love how she’s melting.
“Fine print is,” I say, “I’m doing this because you’re sore. Not because you get to seduce backup whenever you want.”
She laughs that throaty laugh of hers. “Seduce you? Please. If I were seducing you, you’d know.”
A pulse of heat goes straight to my groin, so fast I have to look away for a second because all of me remembers vividly what it’s like to be seduced by her.
“This request,” she adds, matter of fact, “is for the baby.”
“For the baby,” I repeat, nodding seriously even though my pulse is trying to leap out of my throat. “Just making sure.”
“Oh, absolutely.” She moans when I hit a good spot. “A strictly medical procedure.” Her shoulders drop an inch, like I just flipped the right switch.
“We’re okay, then,” I murmur, working slow, warm circles into her arch, letting my thumbs map the tension there while trying like hell not to imagine what she’d feel like if she made those same sounds against my neck.
Her head tips back as if she’s melting into the sofa. A low ache coils right behind my zipper, sharp enough that I have to grit my teeth.
“Ugh…” she groans. “How can my feet be this sore when I was sitting all day?”
My hands keep moving, slow and steady, thumbs pressing into arches that are clearly grateful for it. This is supposed to be simple. Practical. A favor between friends.
And then my attention drifts where it shouldn’t—up her neck, long and soft, the faint line of her collarbone visible where her uniform shirt gapes just enough to show skin. Skin I know too well. Skin I’ve had my mouth on before.
That’s not okay.
She’s trusting me with this. A friendly, much-needed massage. Not whatever my brain wants to turn it into if I let it.
I drag my focus back to my hands.
We’re going to be in each other’s lives. We’re going to have to get used to closeness that doesn’t mean more. I’m going to be supporting her in the delivery room for God’s sake.
A foot massage is bare minimum compared to the trust she’ll need to have in me then.
I ground myself in the motion.
Pressure.
Release.
“Thank you,” she murmurs, eyes half-closed.
“Anytime,” I say quietly.
The timer in the kitchen starts beeping.
Neither of us move.
In fact, even with the annoying beep in the background, my thumbs slow, my pressure is unhurried.
And that’s when I realize. The dangerous part isn’t touching her. It’s how right this feels—and how easily I could let it mean more.
