9 | Let Me Help
I lasted until almost midnight before the walls of my room started feeling too close.
The rough track had gone out. The production team had already replied with a string of approving emojis.
I had answered three emails, showered, and tried to read the same paragraph of a contract amendment four times before giving up.
Every time I closed my eyes I felt Leo’s hand at the back of my neck again, the exact pressure of his thigh between mine, the way his voice had dropped when he said he wasn’t sorry about the song.
Sleep wasn’t happening.
I pulled on leggings and an oversized sweatshirt, shoved my feet into slippers, and stepped into the hallway. The lodge was quiet. Soft light spilled from under a couple of doors. Somewhere downstairs a pipe ticked as it cooled.
I almost made it past Leo’s room.
The door opened just as I reached it. He stood in the frame wearing low black sweatpants and nothing else, curls damp from a late shower, a toothbrush hanging out of the corner of his mouth like he had been interrupted mid-routine. He took one look at me and the toothbrush disappeared.
“Couldn’t sleep either?” he asked, voice low and private.
“I’m getting water.”
I kept walking. He stepped fully into the hallway, bare feet silent on the wood, and fell into pace beside me for three steps before stopping again.
“You managed not to look at me all day,” he said. “Impressive discipline. How’s that working out for you?”
I turned just enough to meet his eyes. “Go to bed, Leo.”
I left him there.
My pulse was still elevated when I reached the far end of the hall. Wesley’s door stood open a few inches, warm light leaking into the corridor. I could hear the low murmur of a television. I should have kept walking. Instead I slowed, then stopped.
A quiet laugh drifted out. Wesley’s, soft and unguarded.
He was stretched across the bed in dark gray sweatpants and a faded black T-shirt, back against the headboard, one knee bent. The television on the opposite wall played an old documentary with the volume low.
When he looked up and saw me, the smile that spread across his face was immediate and genuine.
“Hey,” he said. “You disappeared after we sent the file. Come hang.”
I hesitated on the threshold. Through the open glass balcony doors I could see Kadir’s broad silhouette in one of the outdoor chairs, hoodie up, the orange tip of a joint glowing and fading in the dark. Cold air drifted in.
Wesley followed my glance, then patted the mattress beside him. “He’s fine. He’s been out there for a minute. Come on.”
I stepped inside and closed the door most of the way behind me, leaving it cracked. The room smelled like clean laundry and whatever citrus body wash Wesley used. I stayed near the foot of the bed at first, arms folded.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Fine.”
“You look stressed.”
I exhaled through my nose. “Long day.”
“Longer night, looks like.” He shifted, making more space.
I sat on the edge of the mattress, facing the television more than him. On the screen a younger version of some classic band argued good-naturedly about a bridge. The normalcy of it felt surreal after the last twenty-four hours.
Wesley was quiet for a moment. Then he said, softer, “Thank you. For earlier. In the studio.”
I glanced over. “For what?”
“Listening. When I said the push was why it worked. Most people just wait for Leo to decide and then agree so everyone can move on.” He rubbed the back of his neck, looking embarrassed by his own sincerity. “It mattered. So. Thanks.”
I nodded once. “You were right. The track is better for it.”
He smiled again, smaller this time. Then his gaze sharpened a fraction. “You still look stressed as hell, though. Tell me.”
I considered lying. The hallway conversation with Leo sat too close to the surface. “Just… everything. The deadline. The call this morning. The fact that one good take doesn’t magically fix six months of dysfunction.”
Wesley hummed like he didn’t entirely believe that was the whole list, but he didn’t push. Instead he stretched his arms over his head until his shoulders popped, then dropped them again.
“Okay. Options,” he said, voice turning playful.
“You can go out there with Kadir and borrow whatever he’s smoking.
I can even come if you want company. Or…
” He patted the mattress beside him again.
“You can stay right here and let me work some of that tension out of your shoulders. You’ve been carrying the whole session on them all day. Literally.”
I looked at him. The offer was easy, open, zero pressure. Exactly the kind of thing Wesley would say.
My internal calculus was less noble. I had already let Leo pin me to a wall and put his hand under my sweater less than twenty-four hours ago.
Crossing another line wouldn’t have been catastrophic.
Plus, the idea of Wesley’s calm hands sounded responsible by comparison.
Safer. Sweeter. Something I could justify if I tried hard enough.
I just wanted to stop thinking for twenty minutes.
“Massage,” I said.
His smile widened, bright and pleased. “Good choice. Turn around.”
I shifted so my back faced him. The mattress dipped as he moved closer. His hands settled on my shoulders through the thick fabric of the sweatshirt, testing the muscle with firm, even pressure.
“Jesus,” he murmured. “You’re basically concrete.”
“Flattering.”
“You’re lucky I know what I’m doing.” He worked his thumbs into the tight line along the top of my shoulders, slow and deliberate. “Breathe for me.”
The first few minutes stayed purely practical.
He found every knot I hadn’t realized I was carrying and coaxed it looser with patient, circling pressure.
The documentary continued in the background.
Cold air continued to drift through the open balcony doors.
Every so often I glanced sideways and caught the glow of Kadir’s joint.
Wesley’s hands moved lower, working the muscles beside my spine. “I can tell how much you needed this,” he said quietly. “You’ve been holding everything so tight.”
He pushed the hem of my sweatshirt up a few inches so he could reach bare skin. His palms were warm. When his thumbs traced the sides of my waist I felt the shift. Still therapeutic, but no longer entirely innocent. I stayed still and let it happen.
“This okay?” he asked against the back of my neck.
I nodded.
His hands slid higher under the fabric, spanning my mid-back, then drifting to the edges of my ribs.
The touch remained slow. Exploratory in the gentlest way.
When his fingers brushed the undersides of my breasts through my sports bra I inhaled sharply.
He paused, giving me time, then continued with the same unhurried pressure.
“I think I might have to massage this side too,” he said, shifting so he could reach further around. One hand stayed on my back while the other smoothed over my side, thumb stroking absently. “You’re still carrying it all up here.”
I turned my head. He was closer than I expected. The soft light from the television caught the freckles across the bridge of his nose and the open curiosity in his expression.
Then he leaned in and kissed me.
Wesley’s mouth was warm and searching, unhurried, sweet at first. He tasted like the mint gum he always seemed to have. When I opened for him he deepened the kiss, one hand sliding up to cup the side of my neck while the other stayed low on my waist.
I twisted further so I could face him properly.
The kiss turned hungrier by degrees. His tongue stroked mine, still playful, still coaxing rather than demanding.
When I pulled back just enough to breathe he followed, pressing lighter kisses to the corner of my mouth, my jaw, the spot just beneath my ear.
“Let me help you,” he whispered there. “You’ve been taking care of everyone else all day.”
I let him guide me down onto the mattress on my stomach.
He straddled the backs of my thighs carefully, keeping most of his weight off me, and resumed the massage with both hands.
The sweatshirt came off entirely. Cool air touched my skin; then his palms returned, warmer, sliding from my shoulders all the way down to the small of my back in long, deliberate strokes.
Kadir’s silhouette remained visible through the glass. He had turned the chair so he faced the room more directly. The joint glowed again. He was watching.
Wesley’s hands reached the waistband of my leggings. He paused. “Still good?”
“Yeah.”
He worked the tight muscles just above my hips, thumbs pressing in slow circles.
Each pass drifted a little lower. When his fingers slipped beneath the waistband, I lifted my hips without thinking, enough for him to ease the fabric down a few inches.
He left the leggings on, just tugged them low enough to reach the upper curves of my ass and the sensitive hollows beside them.
“There you go,” he said, voice fond. “Just relax for me.”
I tried. It was difficult when every pass of his hands sent fresh heat between my legs.
He must have felt the way my breathing changed because his next stroke traveled further, one hand sliding along the outside of my thigh while the other stayed central.
The pressure remained massage-like, but the intent had shifted completely.
A soft knock of glass made both of us look up.
Kadir stood in the open balcony doorway, joint held loosely between two fingers. His hood was still up. His expression was calm, clinical, except for the way his gaze moved over my back and the lowered waistband of my leggings.
“Her hip abductor,” he said, voice low and even. “She pulled it the other day. Left side especially.”
Wesley’s hands stilled. “Yeah?”
Kadir’s eyes met mine for a long second. “You should probably work it.”
Then he stepped back outside, resumed his seat, and took another slow drag. He stayed angled toward the glass. Watching.
The muscle didn’t actually hurt anymore. I knew that. Wesley and Kadir probably knew it too. Neither of us mentioned it.
Wesley shifted his weight, settling more to my left. One warm hand smoothed over the outside of my hip, then drifted inward along the soft inner seam of my leggings. His fingers pressed carefully along the length of the muscle, testing, coaxing.
“I can feel how tight you still are here,” he whispered. “Let me help.”
He worked higher. The pressure stayed firm and deliberate, but every stroke brought his hand closer to the place where I was already aching. When his fingertips finally brushed the damp fabric between my legs I bit my lip hard enough to sting.
Wesley didn’t comment on how wet I was. But I could tell he was pleased. He stroked once more, slow and assessing, and said quietly, “We should probably do something about this.”
The coy understatement nearly undid me.
I nodded against the pillow.
He eased my leggings and underwear down further, just enough. The cool air lasted only a second before his hand returned, bare skin to bare skin this time. Two fingers slid through with devastating patience.
“It’s okay,” he whispered. “I know what you need.”
He stroked in unhurried circles, teasing, never quite giving me the direct pressure I wanted yet. When I tried to rock back against his hand he made a soft tsking sound and used his other palm to keep my hips steady.
“Patience. You’re always rushing to take care of everything. Let me do it this time.”
I could feel Kadir’s eyes on us through the glass. The knowledge sent electricity through the base of my spine. Wesley’s fingers finally slipped inside. Slow, careful, curling just enough to make my breath catch. His thumb found my clit and began stroking in the same coaxing rhythm.
“I can tell how much you needed this,” he said again, softer now, almost wondering. “You’re sensitive.”
He was right. Fine tremors ran through my thighs. I pressed my face into the pillow to muffle the sounds trying to escape. Wesley leaned down, lips brushing the back of my shoulder.
“Don’t hide. He already knows how good you’re being for me.”
The reminder of our audience sent another hard pulse of heat through me.
Wesley felt it; his fingers stroked deeper in response, still playful, still gentle, but relentless.
He kept talking in that same low, coaxing voice, telling me how soft I felt, how well I was taking it, how he could do this as long as I needed.
Every so often he would pause just long enough for me to ache for more, then resume with a quiet, “Let me help you.”
When the tension finally broke it rolled through me in long, helpless waves.
I came with my face turned toward the balcony doors, eyes half-open, locked on the dark shape of Kadir watching from the cold.
Wesley worked me through it with the same patient focus, murmuring soft praise against my skin until the last tremor faded.
Only then did he ease his hands away. He pressed a gentle kiss to the back of my shoulder, then another to the side of my neck.
“Better?” he asked, voice still warm and a little rough.
I managed a nod. Speech felt temporarily impossible.
He helped me tug my leggings back into place with careful hands, then pulled the discarded sweatshirt over my head when I reached for it. The domestic tenderness of the gestures after what he had just done to me felt more intimate than the orgasm itself.
Kadir remained on the balcony a minute longer. Then he stood, ground out the joint, and stepped back into the room. He closed the glass doors quietly behind him. The sudden absence of cold air made the space feel small.
He looked at me for several seconds. Whatever he saw seemed to satisfy him. He gave Wesley a small nod that might have meant anything, then walked past the bed toward the hallway without another word.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Wesley settled against the headboard again and tugged me loosely into his side. I went without protest. My body still hummed. My mind had already begun the familiar, useless work of trying to justify what had just happened.
I had crossed a line with Leo against a wall less than a day ago. Now I had let Wesley get me off while Kadir watched and directed from six feet away. My rationalization was looking increasingly flimsy.
Wesley’s fingers traced idle patterns along my arm. He didn’t ask for anything else. He just stayed close, warm and solid, the television still murmuring in the background like nothing significant had shifted.
I stared at the ceiling and tried to remember what professional distance was supposed to feel like.
It already seemed like something that belonged to a different person.