Chapter 3 - Geoff
three
Geoff
Thanks to Lilah following my informal rules, and the studio is making actual money. She's eating real food because I text her to check, and she's standing up for herself more, though she still needs backup when clients push.
But the real problem: I'm falling for her and my body's too broken to do anything about it.
Every class, I watch her move with that effortless grace while my back screams in protest. I want to touch her outside of form corrections, want to hear her say "yes, Sir" instead of just accepting my orders with relieved gratitude.
Want to take her to bed and show her exactly what it means to give up control to someone who'll actually take care of her.
But what do I have to offer? A broken body, chronic pain, PTSD I refuse to admit to. I can't even get through a yoga class without my back spasming.
After class, she corners me. "Come to my apartment. I have treatments that might help."
"I don't need—"
"Sir." She uses the title deliberately. First time she's said it. The word goes straight through me. "Let me help you. Please."
The please breaks my resistance.
Her apartment is above the studio. Inside, it's pink everywhere, crystals on every surface, plants hanging from the ceiling. But also organized, professional.
What catches my attention is the massage table in the corner. Professional grade. And the bookshelf full of medical texts mixed with the new age stuff.
"Physical therapy," she says, following my gaze. "I was in school for it. Got halfway through before I dropped out."
"Why quit?"
"My professor said I was too soft. Too eager to please. That I'd never make it in the medical field because I couldn't handle setting boundaries with patients." She laughs, bitter. "He was right."
"He was an idiot."
She looks at me, surprised.
"Being soft isn't a weakness. Being unable to say no is. But you're learning." I gesture at the table. "You don't build a medical-grade treatment room if you're not serious about the work."
"Shirt off," she says quietly. "Lie face down."
I do, suppressing a groan as I settle onto the table.
Her hands start on my shoulders. Gentle at first, assessing. Then she finds a knot and digs in with her thumb. The pain is immediate and intense and somehow exactly what I need.
"You were shot." Not a question. Her fingers have found the scar tissue.
"Three times. Two in the back, one in the shoulder."
"And you never got proper therapy afterward."
"Tried. Didn't take."
Her hands move lower, finding every damaged vertebra, every place the bullets tore through muscle and nerve. "Pain isn't weakness, Geoff. Ignoring it is stupidity."
"Noted."
She works in silence for a while. Her touches are confident, knowledgeable. She finds trigger points I didn't know existed, works through scar tissue. This isn't some spa massage. This is medical intervention from someone who actually knows what she's doing.
When she digs her elbow into a particularly bad spot, I can't suppress the groan.
"Too much?"
"No. Good. Hurts like hell but good."
She works that spot until something releases. The relief is immediate and overwhelming. Better than pills. Better than whiskey. Better than anything my doctor ever did.
"Where did you learn this?" I ask when I can breathe again.
"School. Before I quit. And I've been reading. Practicing on myself. Trying to stay current even though I'm not..." She trails off.
"Not what?"
"Not brave enough to finish."
I flip over despite the pain, grab her wrist before she can step away. She's standing next to the table, close enough that I can see the doubt clouding her eyes, the way she's already retreating into that place where she believes all the cruel things people have said about her.
"You're plenty brave. You kicked out Kevin. You're enforcing payment policies. You're standing up for yourself."
"Only because you're making me." She tries to pull her wrist free, but I hold firm.
"I'm not making you do anything. I'm just giving you permission to do what you already wanted to." I pull her closer, and she comes, hesitant but willing. "The hard part isn't the doing. It's believing you deserve to."
She's close now, too close, her vanilla scent mixing with the eucalyptus oil she's been using on my back. Those blue eyes are wide and uncertain, wanting something she's afraid to name or ask for.
"Let me take care of you," she whispers, and there's more in those words than just the physical therapy. "Please, Sir. Let me help."
The 'Sir' in that context, her asking permission to care for me, to fix what’s broken, shatters something in my chest. All my walls, all my resistance, all the bullshit about being too broken to want things or deserve them.
"Okay, little girl. Okay."
The endearment slips out before I can stop it, but I wait for her to correct me, to tell me that's inappropriate or too much too soon.
Instead, her breath catches and her pupils dilate. She leans into my hand that's still wrapped around her wrist, and I can feel her pulse racing under my thumb.
"You called me little girl."
"Is that okay?" I give her the out, the chance to pull back from whatever this is becoming.
"Yes, Sir." The words come out soft and eager, a little breathless, like she's been waiting her whole life to say them.
Fuck. The way she says it, the trust implicit in those two words, goes straight to my cock. "Roll back over. I'm not done with your back."
I obey without hesitation, let her work the rest of my destroyed muscles. I let her see all my damage without flinching away from the worst of it. By the time she's done, I can move without agony for the first time in months. The pain is still there but it's manageable now. Bearable.
"Better?" she asks as she helps me sit up, her hands gentle and sure.
"Yeah." I test my range of motion, rolling my shoulders, twisting my spine. Significantly improved in ways I didn't think were possible anymore. "Lilah, that was...wow. You're really fucking good at this."
She blushes at the praise, ducking her head. "Thank you, Sir."
There it is again, that title that she keeps using like she can't help it, like it belongs between us in a way that has nothing to do with yoga or physical therapy.
I pull my shirt back on, already feeling the difference in my spine, the way my body moves without that constant grinding pain. "You have a gift, Lilah. A real one. But you need to stop apologizing for wanting to help people and start protecting yourself while you do it."
"I don't know how."
"That's what I'm here for." I walk to where she's standing, cup her face so she has to look at me. "Until you learn. Or until you don't need me anymore."
"What if I always need you?" The question comes out barely louder than a whisper, vulnerable and scared and hoping all at once.
The question hangs between us, loaded with implications we're not quite ready to name but can't seem to walk away from either.
"Then I guess you're stuck with me."
She walks me to the door. We stand there, neither wanting to leave this moment.
"Same time Friday?" she asks.
"Friday." I pause. "And Lilah? You're going to finish that degree. Eventually. When you're ready. When you know how to protect yourself and your practice."
"You think so?"
"I know so. You're too good at this to waste it."
After I leave, I sit in my truck for five minutes, processing. My back feels better than it has in years. My phone has her number. She calls me Sir like it's natural as breathing.
And I'm falling for her. Hard. Fast. Completely.