Spa day

He didn’t say anything right away.

He just stood there, hand still on my hip, thumb grazing my smooth skin like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to touch me more or just admire what I’d done.

Then, softly, “Get dressed. We’ve got a place to be.”

I blinked, still breathless from the attention, but I nodded.

I followed him back to the bedroom and dressed in something soft and light—loose shorts, a hoodie that smelled like him. My skin felt extra sensitive beneath the fabric. Every brush of cotton made me more aware of how bare I was.

He handed me a folded slip of paper as we stepped out the door. It was an appointment confirmation.

“Couples spa day,” he said, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

I looked up at him, blinking.

He grinned. “You deserve it.”

We pulled up to the spa just after 10:30. The building was tucked into the edge of a wooded area—quiet, private, the kind of place where everything smelled like eucalyptus and warm stone. He held my hand on the way inside, squeezing it gently as the receptionist checked us in.

The lobby was minimalist and soft, sunlight filtering through pale curtains, gentle music playing in the background. I already felt more relaxed.

We were led to a changing room and handed plush white robes and slippers. I slipped out of my clothes quickly, a little shy even though he’d seen every inch of me. Something about being in this new space made me feel more delicate again. My smooth skin brushed against the soft inside of the robe, and I couldn’t help but squirm a little as we walked down the hall.

Our first treatment was a couple’s massage.

The room was dimly lit with soft amber light, candles lining the walls, and two massage tables side-by-side. We lay down together, close enough that our hands could brush if we reached out. The moment the therapist’s hands touched my shoulders, I felt every last bit of tension unravel. I closed my eyes and let go.

The oil was warm, the pressure deep but soothing. I could hear him breathing beside me—slow, calm, content. Occasionally, I’d feel his fingers touch mine between the tables. Just a small reminder that he was there. That I was his.

When the massage was done, we were taken to a quiet soak room. A deep tub, big enough for two, already full of steaming water infused with lavender and rose. He slipped in first and held out a hand. I climbed in after him, sinking into the warmth until I was pressed up gently against his chest.

Neither of us spoke for a while.

The water lapped softly around us, and he slowly traced circles over my thigh with one fingertip. I laid my head back against his shoulder and sighed.

“You like being taken care of, don’t you?” he whispered.

I nodded, eyes closed.

“You’re easy to spoil when you’re this sweet.”

I flushed, smiling to myself.

We soaked until the water cooled.

After the soak came facials—hot towels, gentle cleansing, cool serums massaged into our skin until I felt like my face was glowing. He teased me for purring under the touch, but when it was his turn, he practically melted, too.

I watched him while he lay there: eyes closed, lashes soft against his cheekbones, a faint smile at the corner of his mouth. I felt lucky. I felt kept.

By the time we returned to the changing room, I felt like a new version of myself. Light. Polished. Bare in a way that had nothing to do with nudity.

He looked over at me before we left and said, “You’re glowing.”

And I believed him.

Because I was.