He kissed my temple.
“I booked something.”
I blinked.
“What kind of something?”
“A recovery place off campus. Private suite.” His hand moved up and down my spine once, slow and calming. “Massage, cold plunge, steam, sauna. Just us.”
I looked up at him.
“You did not.”
His mouth curved.
“I did.”
“You booked me a secret athlete spa?”
“I booked us one.”
That should not have been hot.
It was devastatingly hot.
I stared at him.
At the hoodie.
At the dark hair falling a little over his forehead.
At the mouth that should come with a warning label.
Then I asked the only reasonable question.
“Did you also solve world hunger on the drive over?”
He laughed softly.
“Get in the car, baby.”
The place was tucked behind a nondescript row of offices in Menlo Park, hidden enough that you would never notice it unless someone told you exactly where to look.
No sign out front.
No flashy branding.
Just smoked glass, clean lines, and a keypad entry like rich people had discovered physiotherapy and turned it into a secret society.
Inside, it smelled like eucalyptus, clean stone, and money.
Soft lights.
Pale wood.
Muted music low enough not to offend anybody with a headache.
A receptionist who looked like she had signed three NDAs before breakfast.
