3 | Tell Me Where It Hurts
The soreness started as a dull ache when I climbed the stairs after dinner.
By the time I changed for bed, it had spread through my thighs and settled high around my hips, where every movement reminded me that I had allowed Wesley to convince me an empty bar counted as a reasonable introduction to strength training.
He had been encouraging.
If he had laughed at me or acted impressed with himself, I would have stopped after the treadmill. Instead, he had stood behind me with his hands at my waist, calmly telling me I was doing well until I attempted several exercises my body had not prepared for.
Now even getting into bed required strategy.
I lay beneath the blankets for twenty minutes, shifted twice, and discovered that every comfortable position became uncomfortable as soon as I stayed in it.
The lodge was quiet around me, though not silent.
Pipes moved faintly in the walls. Wind brushed snow against the windows.
Somewhere farther down the hall, a door opened and closed.
Sleep remained unavailable.
Eventually, I gave up and went downstairs for water.
Most of the lights had been turned off. Only the lamps near the fireplace remained on, leaving the large living room dim and golden. The windows reflected the inside of the lodge more clearly than the mountains beyond them.
I crossed toward the kitchen and noticed a small point of orange light through the glass doors.
Kadir sat outside alone.
He occupied the same chair he had chosen the day before, angled toward the dark slope beyond the terrace.
A black hoodie covered most of his hair, though several thick pieces had fallen forward around his face.
One ankle rested across the opposite knee.
The joint glowed between his fingers before he lifted it to his mouth.
I stopped near the kitchen island.
He inhaled slowly, held it, then tipped his head back and exhaled toward the overhang above him. Smoke left his mouth in a pale stream and spread around his face before the cold broke it apart.
He looked unfairly good doing something that mostly made other people appear tired and hungry.
Kadir lowered his head and looked through the glass directly at me.
His eyes were heavy from the weed, his expression calm enough that I couldn’t tell whether he had been watching me for several seconds or had only just noticed I was there.
I caught myself wondering whether he kept that same composure in every situation.
Would he breathe that evenly with someone beneath him? Would his eyes stay low and steady while the other person lost whatever control he still appeared to possess?
I opened the refrigerator and stared inside as though cold bottled water might restore my professionalism.
It didn’t.
I took a bottle, closed the refrigerator, and went outside.
Cold air slipped immediately beneath the sleeves of my sweatshirt. I had remembered shoes this time, though only soft house slippers that wouldn’t protect me from anything more dangerous than a cold floor.
Kadir watched me approach without changing position.
“I wanted to thank you,” I said. “For putting on pants this morning without making a huge deal about it.”
He nodded once.
“You’re welcome.”
That was apparently the entire ceremony.
I sat at the opposite end of the sectional rather than taking the chair beside him. The distance felt safer, though the terrace was small enough that I could still smell smoke whenever the wind shifted.
Kadir held the joint out.
I accepted it.
The first inhale burned. I managed not to cough, mostly because Kadir was looking at me and I had already embarrassed myself enough around the band for one day. I passed it back and took a drink of water.
His tattooed fingers looked even larger wrapped around the joint. The sleeve of his hoodie had pushed back from his wrist, exposing dark ink and veins beneath his skin. He smoked slowly, without the restless movements people usually made when they were waiting for conversation.
When he looked at me again, he did so directly.
There was no quick glance away after I caught him. His gaze moved over my face, settled briefly on my mouth, then returned to my eyes.
The weed softened the edges of the night. Snow covered the terrace railing and the slope beyond it, absorbing every distant sound. The lodge lights reflected across the glass behind us.
I took the joint when he offered it again.
“Leo always like that?” I asked.
Kadir looked toward the mountains. “Mostly. He gets worse when someone tells him what to do.”
“I noticed.”
The remark about my father rose again, bringing the same quick pressure beneath my ribs. I had spent the rest of the day pretending Leo hadn’t managed to touch the exact insecurity I had carried into the lodge.
Kadir seemed to notice the change in my face.
“He crossed a line,” he said.
I looked down at the joint between my fingers. “You could’ve said that while he was there.”
“You left.”
“So?”
His eyes returned to mine.
“I would have.”
I couldn’t tell whether he meant he would have defended me or merely acknowledged that Leo had gone too far. Kadir didn’t volunteer enough language for certainty.
I passed the joint back.
“You’re difficult to read.”
“I know.”
There was the slightest trace of amusement in his voice.
“You enjoy that?”
“Sometimes.”
It was more playful than anything else he had said to me, though his expression barely changed. Kadir didn’t need a smile to tease. He only needed to let me know he understood something I didn’t.
I stayed outside longer than I intended.
The cold became less noticeable after the second hit, and the ache through my legs dulled until it felt distant. Kadir remained beside me, quiet enough that I stopped feeling responsible for keeping the interaction alive.
Eventually, I checked the time on my phone.
“I should go to bed.”
Kadir nodded.
I placed both hands against the cushion and pushed myself up.
Pain tightened sharply along the inside of my right thigh. My leg gave a small, humiliating jerk beneath me. I caught the arm of the sectional before I could fall back down, but a sound still escaped my mouth.
Kadir was standing before I recovered. He looked at my stance, then at my face.
“You’re hurt.”
“I’m sore.”
“Where?”
The location made the question difficult.
I gestured vaguely toward my hip. “Around there.”
Kadir’s gaze dropped as he stepped closer.
The weed made his movement seem slower than it was. One moment he stood beside his chair, and the next his broad body blocked part of the lodge light behind him.
“What did you do?”
“Worked out.”
His eyes moved over me once. “You?”
I straightened despite the pull in my thigh. “I exercise.”
Kadir waited.
“Fine. I exercised today. Treadmill. Squats. Some other things.”
Kadir held out one hand. “Stand up straight.”
The authority in his voice was calm enough that I obeyed before deciding whether I wanted to.
Pain pulled again when I shifted my weight. Kadir’s hand settled around my hip, steadying me before I could compensate. His palm covered more of my side than I expected, fingers curving around the top of my thigh.
“Put your weight on the other leg.”
I shifted slowly.
His free hand pressed against the outside of my thigh, beginning near my knee and moving upward. The first touch was clearly practical. He tested the muscle with firm pressure, watching the way I stood rather than my face.
I tried to treat the examination accordingly until his hand reached the crease of my hip.
Kadir pressed with two fingers near the front of the joint, then moved to the side.
“This hurt?”
“A little.”
He adjusted his grip and guided my knee outward.
The muscle along my inner thigh tightened immediately.
I inhaled.
His eyes lifted to mine. “Inside?”
I nodded.
Kadir moved his hand around my thigh. His fingers began several inches above my knee and pressed along the inner muscle through my leggings. The pressure was slow and deliberate, searching rather than stroking.
At first.
He moved higher.
My breathing became more noticeable to me than the pain.
Kadir’s attention remained on my face. He seemed to know where his fingers were without looking down, following the muscle by touch while he watched every small reaction I failed to hide.
“Here?”
“No.”
His hand moved higher.
The inside of my thigh had become an increasingly intimate place for a medical investigation, especially one being conducted on a dark patio by a man who had been smoking weed alone ten minutes earlier.
His fingers pressed again. The soreness sharpened, and I flinched.
Kadir held the pressure for a moment. “Tight.”
He dragged his fingers downward several inches.
Relief followed the movement.
Then his hand traveled upward again. This time, he didn’t press in careful sections. His fingertips moved slowly along the inside of my thigh in one continuous line.
The difference was immediate. My body recognized it before my mind finished deciding whether it had happened.
Kadir’s hand reached higher than before, stopping beneath the crease where my thigh met my hips. His fingers applied steady pressure close enough to make every other sensation disappear.
He watched my face the entire time.
I forgot about the pulled muscle.
“Here?” he asked.
The word was quiet.
I swallowed. “That doesn’t hurt.”
His eyes lowered slightly.
“I know.”
Heat moved through me with embarrassing force.
His expression remained serious. His breathing stayed even. Only his hand revealed the shift between us, fingers pressing slowly into the soft inside of my thigh without any practical reason left to explain it.
I wondered again whether he would stay this calm in every situation.
The answer seemed increasingly obvious.
His thumb moved once, firm and slow, just beneath the top of my leg.
My thighs tightened around the reaction.
“Relax,” Kadir said.
He dragged his fingers downward again, slowly enough that my muscles followed the movement. Then he reversed direction, allowing the touch to become unmistakably deliberate.
My pulse had moved into my throat.
“Is this part of the stretch?” I asked.
“No.”
His thumb pressed again.
My breath caught.
The satisfaction in his eyes was impossible to miss. Then his hand moved away. Kadir returned his palm to the outer part of my thigh and pressed near the actual strain. The practical touch felt strangely impersonal after what had just happened.
“You pulled the muscle,” he said. “Probably not too bad.”
I stared at him.
“You do that with everyone who gets sore?”
“No.”
The answer was immediate. Kadir released my thigh but kept one hand at my hip when I tested my weight again. The soreness remained, though it no longer occupied much of my attention.
“I can walk.”
He ignored me and guided me toward the glass doors.
His hand slid from my hip to the small of my back as we crossed into the lodge. The warmth inside surrounded us, making me more conscious of his palm through my sweatshirt.
Near the stairs, he finally let go.
“Heat,” he said. “And stretch before you sleep.”
I nodded, still struggling to match his composure.
He started toward the kitchen, then stopped and looked back.
“Next time, tell me where it hurts.”
His eyes stayed on mine long enough to make the sentence mean more than one thing.
Then he walked away.
The muscle still hurt when I climbed the stairs.
Unfortunately, it was no longer the part of my body receiving most of my attention.