Chapter 6: Chapter 6
The silence between Debbie and Matt in the kitchen that morning had been thick enough to choke on. His easy gratitude, his oblivious smile – they felt like accusations. The memory of her fingers tracing his sleeping skin burned. Days passed in a tense limbo. Debbie threw herself into her massage course modules, the anatomy diagrams blurring into images of muscle and tendon she shouldn’t be picturing. She avoided the hallway at night, listening with bated breath for any sound from Matt’s room, relief and a traitorous pang of disappointment warring whenever the night remained quiet.
Wednesday morning arrived damp and grey. Debbie shuffled towards the bathroom, the scent of cheap floral air freshener mingling with the lingering dampness of someone else’s shower already clinging to the air. She pushed the door open, expecting emptiness.
He was there. Leaning over the chipped porcelain sink, his reflection fractured in the foggy mirror. Matt wore only faded navy boxer shorts, the elastic waistband sitting low on his hips. Steam curled from the hot water he’d obviously just used. His back was to her, the muscles in his shoulders and arms flexing as he carefully scraped a razor over his jawline. Water droplets traced paths down the distinct groove of his spine, disappearing into the waistband. That familiar trail of dark hair started just below his shoulder blades, narrowing as it vanished downwards.
Debbie froze. Her breath caught. Every nerve ending sparked with the memory of touch, of heat.
"Hey," Matt mumbled around the razor, catching her reflection in the mirror. He didn't turn, just continued his careful strokes. "S'okay. Almost done. Come on in." His voice was thick with sleep, utterly casual.
Her feet moved automatically. The small room felt suddenly cavernous yet suffocatingly intimate. She closed the door behind her, the click echoing too loudly. The air was warm, humid, smelling of soap, steam, and the clean, musky scent of him. She busied herself at the small counter beside him, grabbing her hairbrush from its designated spot. The flickering bulb overhead cast long, dancing shadows on the pale green walls. Her reflection in the mirror looked pale, wide-eyed. She focused on pulling the brush through her long chestnut hair, the rhythmic snag and release a desperate attempt at normalcy.
"Rough practice yesterday," Matt said, rinsing his razor under the tap. Water splashed. He tilted his head, stretching his neck, exposing the tendon. Debbie’s hand stilled on her hair. "Coach pushed us hard. Think I tweaked something." He patted his lower abdomen, just above the waistband of his boxers, then winced slightly. "Groin area. Feels tight."
Groin. The word hung in the steamy air. Debbie’s gaze flickered downwards despite herself, tracing the line where the damp fabric clung to his hip. She remembered the feel of taut muscle beneath her fingers in the dark, the unexpected softness higher up. Her mouth felt dry.
"Sprain?" she managed, forcing her voice to sound light, professional. Masseuse voice. Be the masseuse. She resumed brushing, watching him in the mirror. He met her reflected gaze for a second, his hazel eyes slightly unfocused.
"Maybe? Kinda aches when I move certain ways." He finished rinsing his face, splashing water, then grabbed a towel. He turned slightly, leaning against the sink counter, the towel draped around his neck. He rubbed at his jaw. The movement pulled the waistband of his boxers fractionally lower. Debbie saw the dark trail of hair begin its descent, a path she’d traced with forbidden curiosity. Heat flared in her cheeks.
"Want me to have a quick look?" The question was out before she could stop it. Her heart hammered. Professional. Clinical. "I mean, just a feel? See where it's tight?" She gestured vaguely towards his hip. "I am training."
Matt paused, towel halfway to his face. He looked at her reflection again, a flicker of something – surprise? – crossing his features. Then he shrugged, easy-going as ever. "Uh, sure? If you don't mind. Might help."
He shifted his weight, resting his hip against the edge of the sink counter. Debbie set her brush down. The tile floor felt cool beneath her bare feet as she stepped closer. The space between them disappeared. The humid air grew thicker, saturated with the scent of his damp skin and soap. She could see the individual droplets clinging to the dark hair on his lower abdomen, just above the waistband. Her fingers trembled slightly as she reached out.
"Where exactly?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper now.
"Here, kinda." He gestured vaguely towards the crease where his thigh met his torso, on the right side. His hand brushed against hers accidentally as he pointed. A tiny jolt.
Debbie knelt. The cold tile bit through the thin cotton of her pajama pants. From this angle, she was eye-level with his lower belly, the pronounced V-cut muscles leading downwards, the dark trail disappearing beneath the blue fabric. Her pulse roared in her ears. She took a slow breath, trying to steady her hands. Palpate. Assess.
Tentatively, she placed her fingertips just above the waistband of his boxers, on the defined muscle of his hip flexor. His skin was warm, damp. He flinched almost imperceptibly at the contact.
"Tender there?" she asked, pressing gently.
"A bit, yeah." His voice sounded different now. Thicker. He shifted his weight again. She felt the subtle tension in the muscle beneath her fingers. She moved her hand slightly lower, towards the inner edge of his hip bone, her fingers skimming the very top of the crease where his thigh began. The skin was incredibly soft here, vulnerable. She pressed, a firmer, probing touch. The waistband of his boxers brushed against the back of her knuckles.
He inhaled sharply. "Whoa. Yeah, right there. That’s the spot." His hand came down, fingers brushing against her wrist as if to guide her pressure. His touch was warm, startling. Debbie froze. She could feel the heat radiating from his body, the faint thrum of his pulse under her fingertips. Her gaze was fixed on the dark fabric stretched taut just inches from her face. The air crackled. She imagined the thick flaccid weight beneath, remembered the soft pressure against her silk-clad stomach in the hallway. A wave of dizziness washed over her.
She pulled her hand back as if burned, scrambling to her feet too quickly. The world tilted slightly. She gripped the edge of the sink counter, her knuckles white. Matt was looking at her, a faint crease between his brows, hazel eyes wide and questioning. Was that confusion? Awareness? Her reflection showed flushed cheeks, parted lips.
"Seems… tight," she stammered, turning on the tap and splashing cold water on her face, hiding behind the motion. The water felt like salvation. "The adductor insertion point. Common strain." Babbling. Stop babbling.
"Yeah," Matt said slowly, pushing himself off the counter. He adjusted the towel around his neck. "Hurts to lift my leg." He demonstrated, raising his knee slightly, the muscles in his thigh and abdomen flexing powerfully. Debbie kept her face turned towards the sink, the cold water dripping from her chin.
"If it’s still bothering you tonight," she said, the words tumbling out, forced past the tightness in her throat, "I could… give you a proper massage? On the table downstairs? With oil? Might help loosen it." She finally dared to glance at him in the mirror.
Matt paused, one hand on the doorknob. He looked back at her reflection, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then his familiar, easy smile flickered back, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Oh. Yeah? That’d be cool. Thanks, Debbie." He gave a small nod. "Save me paying the physio." He opened the door. "See ya."
The door clicked shut behind him. Debbie stared at her own reflection in the steamy mirror. Her chestnut hair clung damply to her temples. Her eyes looked huge, dark. She pressed her damp palms flat against the cool porcelain of the sink. The phantom warmth of his skin still tingled on her fingertips. The offer hung in the humid air, heavy with implication she hadn't fully intended but couldn't take back. A proper massage. Oil. His body on her table. In the quiet of the basement room, just the two of them. The silence of the bathroom wasn't empty anymore; it was filled with the echo of her own reckless invitation and the terrifying, exhilarating thud of her own frantic heartbeat.