Write your fantasy,
make it real.

The proposal was done by afternoon, yet I lingered until eleven, only because the light in his office was still on. The moment the last of the floor emptied out, my director laid his jacket over the back of my chair.

A three-month project review ran late into the night; one by one, everyone left. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling glass, the city blazed, and in the conference room there were only two of us, me and the man who made me lose focus in every meeting.

The whole company fears Director Fu; only I know what lies beneath that cold face. "Take these files to Director Fu" — no one knows that once that door closes, it is another world.

Five years in this trade taught me to keep my hands warm and my heart cold. Then the woman in Room 3 started booking only me, week after week. I worked on her for two months, and held back for two months, until the line I had guarded for five years finally stood at its edge.

Three years as a trainer, I have seen every kind of member, except her. Her sessions are always at nine, and we train until the gym closes at ten, till it is just the two of us. Lift, press, stretch, every move a tightrope.

A house-call order at midnight, the note just a few words: insomnia, male therapist only. I told myself I was there to work. But the loneliness in the eyes of the woman who opened the door, and shoulders knotted stiff as welded iron, made these hands, after five years of massage, cross a line for the first time.

Wednesday evening, the private studio — just you and him. He says he is going to make you get reacquainted with your own body — and you soon realize the point of this session was never the workout. Second-person immersive: you are the protagonist.

For ten years of spa visits I only ever booked women. That night, on a whim, I booked him. The moment his hands landed on my back, one quiet "is this pressure okay?", I knew this time was different.

Third night of the trip, my back aching too much to sleep, I dialed the hotel massage line. When the bell rang, a male therapist stood at the door. That night a keycard, a locked door, and one line, "want to add an hour?", took on another meaning.

At the gym, sports massage means he stretches me. He folds my leg back and makes me breathe with him. Each time goes deeper, until one day the stretch crossed a line.

After the breakup she flies to Bali alone. In a seaside spa hut, a pair of frangipani-oiled hands reclaim her, head to toe.

Worn from constant travel, she books a house-call masseur. The first time is treatment; the second, a habit; the third, she counts the seconds to the doorbell.

Every Wednesday after work she keeps the last slot for that therapy room. The lights dim, the door locks — and his hands go somewhere beyond therapy.