It wasn't anything serious—only lentils that had spoiled in the heat—but the king wasn't getting any younger, and his body needed more time to recover.

Unfortunately, the kingdom still needed to be ruled, a task entrusted to the shoulders of the Hand of the King: your husband.

Baelor's position had always been strenuous, and you remembered your prince returning to your bedchamber well past the hour of the wolf on more than one occasion. You often wished he'd delegate some of his duties to someone else, and frequently reminded him that he didn't have to bear the world's weight upon his shoulders.

"Trust me, dearest, this is nothing compared to the king's own duties."

Baelor would always answer with a gentle smile, though the exhaustion in his eyes never quite convinced you. Still, you knew whom you had married, and you knew his responsibilities would only grow once he sat the Iron Throne.

However, you hadn't expected your love to occupy the throne so soon.

For the past couple of weeks, Baelor had taken on his father's duties in addition to his own. Between presiding over the Small Council, the threat of yet another war between two minor houses of the Riverlands, and the fires spreading through the Reach and Dorne that threatened the people, their homes, and the crops, your prince had more than enough work on his plate.

Baelor spent most of his time in his solar, and you only ever saw him rising from your marital bed at dawn, his stiff back the first and last sight you had of him each day. You begged him to see a maester for an ointment, but the prince refused to hear any of it.

You tried to plead your case once more during one of the rare dinners he shared with you.

"It wouldn't take more than thirty minutes of your time, my love," you argued, frustrated to see him care so little for his own health.

"I'm grateful for your concern, my lady," Baelor replied, his patience wearing thin after a day spent trying to quell the Small Council's constant discord. "Unfortunately, as I've already explained to you, I cannot afford to lose so much time over something so frivolous."

"Taking care of your body isn't frivolous!" you protested. "You don't sleep more than three hours a night, you barely eat, and you remain seated for hours on end. You cannot possibly continue like this!"

"I do not expect my wife to understand what it takes to be part of something greater than oneself!" Baelor snapped. "Not everyone can serve the realm with embroidery!"

Any further argument you had in mind died in your throat.

The rest of the meal passed in silence, and you deliberately ignored the flash of regret in Baelor's eyes.

The following morning, you felt the mattress shift beneath you as your prince rose at dawn. You pretended to remain asleep when you felt his lips brush your forehead, only opening your eyes once you heard the door to your bedchamber close.

Rolling onto your back, you glared at the ceiling as though it had personally offended you by encouraging his behavior. It frustrated you to no end to watch your husband refuse the little help you could offer. It disheartened you even more to think he might not be so eager to turn you away if only you were more useful.

It suddenly struck you how quiet the room was without your love's soft snoring to fill the silence.

As you lay in the dim light, you realized sleep would not return, and the servants wouldn't bring your breakfast for another couple of hours. The thought of lying there doing nothing became unbearable, and you quickly climbed out of bed.

Baelor might be as stubborn as any Targaryen, but so were you.

You pulled on a simple dress—easy enough to fasten by yourself, since you refused to wake your maid at such an ungodly hour—and stepped out into the corridor, much to the astonishment of the two guards posted outside your chambers. A single sharp glance in their direction was enough to silence any questions.

You hurried down the stairs of the Tower of the Hand with swift steps and shivered as the crisp morning air greeted you. Crossing the courtyard, you made your way to the maester's chambers. Unsurprisingly, the old man was already awake and about his duties. He handed you the ointment you sought without much ceremony.

With the small vial tucked safely in your hands, you made your way back to the Tower of the Hand, mentally scolding yourself for dressing so lightly.

You entered Baelor's solar without announcing yourself.

Your husband was barely visible, hidden behind towering stacks of parchment that looked tall enough to build a second Tower of the Hand. The sound of the closing door drew his attention, and he lifted his head, his eyes widening at the sight of you.

"Is something wrong?" your prince asked with concern, knowing full well how much you preferred to sleep in.

In three quick strides, you crossed the room and set the small vial upon the only clear corner of his desk. At the sight of the ointment, Baelor released a long, weary sigh.

"My love—"

You raised a hand, stopping him.

"I know you won't let me tend to your back, but I know another way to help you relax."

An amused smile tugged at his lips.

"Far be it from me to deny myself the pleasure of your company, my lady, but I'm afraid this is neither the time nor the place."

You rolled your eyes, though your cheeks warmed all the same.

"Where can I sit?" you asked instead, searching for a chair that didn't appear to weigh a ton.

Baelor pulled a small stool from beneath his desk and invited you to sit with a graceful gesture. You needed no second invitation.

Once seated beneath his curious gaze, you poured a small amount of ointment into your palms, rubbing them together to warm it before gently taking the hand he had used to indicate the stool.

Your prince raised an eyebrow but wisely kept silent.

Carefully, you removed each of Baelor's rings and placed them on the desk. Your husband always enjoyed absentmindedly playing with them, but the ornaments would only hinder what you intended to do.

You began by spreading the ointment across his hand, gently preparing the muscles for the massage. Pressing your entire palm against his, you applied steady, moderate pressure as you glided from his wrist to his fingertips. Returning with lighter pressure while maintaining constant contact with his skin, you repeated the movement five more times.

Then, using the pad of your thumb, you traced the spaces between the metacarpal bones, moving from the wrist toward each finger, following one line at a time.

Your prince attempted to pull his hand away once you reached his little finger, but you held it firmly.

"Patience, my prince," you said with a smile. "Try to enjoy it."

"I always enjoy feeling your hands on me, my heart," Baelor replied, allowing you to continue without protest.

You rolled your eyes once more, determined not to let his charm distract you from your task.

Taking one finger at a time, you gently rolled it between your thumb and forefinger as you worked toward the fingertip, much like a kitchen servant rolling out dough. At the end of each finger, you gave the slightest, careful tug before repeating the motion with the next.

Finally, you turned your attention to his wrist. Supporting his hand, you slowly rotated the joint in small circles, careful not to cause him any discomfort.

Only then did you release him.

Baelor flexed his fingers experimentally, making no effort to hide his surprise at how effective your technique had been.

"I believe I owe you an apology, my lady. I should not have taken my frustration out on you last night. It was unbecoming of me."

You nodded in acknowledgment.

"Give me your other hand," you teased, "and let me show you that your wife can do much more than embroidery to serve the realm."

You had forgiven him the moment he'd pressed that tender kiss to your forehead earlier that morning.

Baelor readily obliged.

Maekar

"I'm warning you, woman: this is the last time I indulge your nonsense," Maekar grumbled.

You bit your lower lip to keep yourself from smiling.

There he was: the fearsome Anvil, lying face down on the massage table the servants had brought you, with a square of cloth draped over him to preserve his modesty. Surprisingly enough, the prince was extremely prudish, especially compared to Prince Baelor, who was said to have rather exhibitionist tendencies. You had never dared ask any further questions on the matter.

"You're not fooling anyone with that grumpy act, dear," you teased as you took your place beside him.

King Daeron's marriage to Queen Myriah Martell had brought two things to the realm: peace and practices long forgotten.

Dornish culture was a wonder, whether for its acceptance of bastards or its comparatively egalitarian view of men and women. To you, however, the revival of the ancient art of massage was the greatest marvel of all.

Before Queen Myriah's arrival, massage had been condemned by the Faith of the Seven. Its sensual nature was believed to encourage lustful behavior, something the Faith harshly denounced.

Yet Queen Myriah and her companions had taught you that massage could instead be used to relieve the body of both physical and mental strain. As one of the queen's ladies-in-waiting during your younger years, you had learned everything there was to know about the practice: blood circulation, lymphatic flow, and the different degrees of pressure required depending on the type of massage.

You had not hesitated to put that knowledge into practice after noticing how stiffly Maekar moved about Summerhall. The pained groan he let out while bending to retrieve something from the floor had only strengthened your determination to help your beloved.

You began by laying your hands flat against his back, one resting between his shoulder blades and the other on his lower back. Applying gentle pressure, you moved them back and forth in a slow, rhythmic motion, like the rocking of a boat.

"This is ridiculous," Maekar complained, his voice muffled by the table as you moved from his back toward his legs.

"Hush."

Next came the compressions. You positioned yourself near your prince's head. He tried to lift it, but you gently guided it back onto the table.

"Just try to relax, all right?"

Your stubborn lover did not dignify your request with a proper answer, offering only a grunt that you chose to interpret as permission to continue.

Using the broad surface of your palms, you applied gentle downward pressure into the tissues beneath your hands. You began with his shoulders, unsurprisingly taut with tension, before working your way down his back and finally along his legs.

"I thought you needed oil for this foolishness."

"Patience is a virtue, my prince."

"A pity I'm not virtuous, then."

You pinched his calf in punishment before obliging him and fetching the oil.

You settled on sweet almond oil, knowing it would leave his skin soft as a babe's. You wisely kept that particular detail to yourself, however, or Maekar would certainly have climbed off the table and walked straight out.

Setting the bottle within easy reach, you poured a small amount into your hands and rubbed your palms together to warm it.

Once again, you began at the top of his body, spreading the oil with slow, deliberate strokes. This time, you applied firmer pressure as your hands glided downward from his shoulders along his back, over his legs, and all the way to his ankles. You returned with lighter pressure, maintaining constant contact with his skin. You repeated the movement twice more to ensure the oil was evenly distributed.

"I feel like a piece of meat you're basting before roasting it."

"Perhaps I am..." you replied suggestively, allowing your fingertips to lightly brush against his thigh.

He groaned, and, miraculously, stopped interrupting you after that.

Finally, you curved your hands into the shape of the letter C and began kneading his muscles, never once breaking contact with his skin.

The sounds your beloved began to make afterward shall remain unrecorded, for they belonged to your ears alone.

Perhaps the Faith of the Seven had not been entirely wrong about the lustful nature of massages...

Valarr

Convincing Valarr to try something new had never been much of a challenge.

The young prince might have been as proper and honorable as any man could be, but he also possessed an irresistible desire to please. Such was the burden of a man destined to satisfy seven kingdoms. True, Valarr's eagerness to please was directed mostly toward his father, whom he admired deeply and longed to make proud, but you had discovered early in your relationship that you held a similar influence over the prince.

You certainly didn't mind that part of him.

Especially when it resulted in the prince lying on his back upon the firm mattress you had instructed the servants to lay on the floor.

You took a moment to admire him.

He wore nothing but a pair of flax-colored trousers, his bare chest rising and falling gently with each breath, his eyes peacefully closed.

"My love? Are you still there?" he asked after you had spent rather longer than necessary enjoying the sight.

Who could blame you?

Chuckling softly, you knelt at his feet, your flaxen tunic the only thing separating you from the cool stone floor. The chill was welcome, for this summer's heat was harsher than in years past.

"I'm right here, Val," you reassured him. "Though I must confess, my prince, I thought the summers you spent in Dorne during your youth would have introduced you to such practices."

He frowned, the expression making him the very image of Maekar Targaryen.

"What makes you say that, my lady?"

You rested your hands upon his feet, making him shiver at the unexpected touch.

"Because massages do not require you to close your eyes, my lord."

The blush creeping across his cheeks confirmed your suspicion. Valarr opened his eyes, embarrassment glinting in his mismatched blue and brown irises.

"In all fairness, my mother never wished me to become too attached to my Dornish roots."

You nodded as you began pressing your palms lightly against his feet, gliding from his ankles to his toes before returning once more. You repeated the motion several times.

If memory served, Lady Jena had been born a Dondarrion before marrying Prince Baelor. She hailed from one of the great marcher houses that had fought against Dornish incursions for thousands of years. House Dondarrion, along with many other houses of the Dornish Marches, had fiercely opposed King Daeron's marriage to Queen Myriah Martell, some even going so far as to join Daemon Blackfyre's rebellion. The marriage between Valarr's parents had been but one of King Daeron's many attempts to preserve peace within the realm.

You began tracing small circles across the soles of his feet with your thumbs, applying gentle pressure.

"Does it sadden you," you asked quietly, "to have been kept apart from part of your heritage?"

Valarr did not answer immediately.

You paused your ministrations long enough to cross one foot over the other and gently press against the ball of his foot to stretch his ankle before repeating the motion with the opposite leg.

"In truth," he finally said, "my father wasn't raised in Dornish customs either. My grandsire and grandsiress believed the heir to the Iron Throne should be raised as a Targaryen, so my grandmother taught him very little of her own culture. Perhaps it was for the best. Father's appearance always gave the court something to whisper about."

You nodded sympathetically.

Of all his brothers, Baelor Breakspear resembled a Dornishman the most. His dark hair, dark eyes, and sun-kissed complexion had always prompted whispers questioning his legitimacy. There was a cruel irony in looking so undeniably Dornish while knowing so little of Dornish customs. It pained you to imagine a little boy mocked for something entirely beyond his control.

Your gaze drifted to Valarr's brown hair, so much like his father's. You wondered whether his own appearance had once invited similar scrutiny, or whether the single white streak in his hair had been enough to reassure the court of his Targaryen blood.

"Your parents' marriage must have been difficult," you murmured, thinking of House Dondarrion's hatred of Dorne and the irony of giving their daughter to one of its princes.

You felt Valarr tense beneath your touch, and immediately scolded yourself for venturing onto such delicate ground.

"Forgive me. I shouldn't have pried."

Valarr nodded but remained silent.

His parents' marriage had always been a painful subject. You should have known better.

Moving your palms to his legs, you began gliding upward toward his torso, one hand after the other, using steady, moderate pressure.

"It wasn't always easy," Valarr admitted at last as your hands reached his abdomen. "Especially since my grandmother and my mother rarely saw eye to eye, and my father never wished to take either side."

You winced in sympathy.

Queen Myriah and Lady Jena were both formidable women. It was easy enough to imagine family dinners growing rather uncomfortable whenever topics such as the Battle of the Redgrass Field arose.

"I pity your father," you said with a small laugh, repeating the stroke as you felt the tension gradually leave his body.

"So did my brother and I," Valarr confessed with an amused smile.

When you had finished, you placed one hand beneath his knee and the other beneath his thigh, gently bending his leg until it formed a right angle.

Valarr watched you curiously, but you ignored his inquisitive stare.

Sitting beside him, you placed the sole of your foot against the back of his thigh and gently pressed downward in slow, rhythmic motions. The unusual position—and the even stranger technique—made him burst into laughter.

"Though I know very little about massages," he said between chuckles, "even I can tell you're enjoying yourself at my expense, my lady."

You huffed in mock offense as you lowered his leg and repeated the exercise on the other.

His laughter only grew louder.

"How dare you question my honor, ser?"

Valarr's smile widened, though he wisely chose not to answer.

You were simply grateful the conversation had moved away from his family.

The brief moment of levity allowed you to ask him to roll onto his stomach.

Once he had settled comfortably, you lifted one lower leg and crossed it gently over the other. Holding his ankle, you carefully pushed his heel toward his backside to stretch the muscles. Nervous laughter rippled through Valarr's body.

"I didn't know you could be so easily distracted, my prince," you chided, though the amusement in your voice robbed the words of any real reproach.

You switched legs, repeating the stretch on the other side while watching Valarr giggle like an overgrown child.

"Can you blame me, my lady," he laughed, "when I have your hands all over me?"

Whatever attempt at seduction he intended was completely undone by his own helpless laughter.

You couldn't remember the last time you had seen the prince so utterly carefree, if indeed you ever had.

As endearing as the sight was, you continued.

Placing your palms against his back, you applied moderate pressure as you glided from his lower back to his shoulders, repeating the movement several times. Then you slipped your hands beneath his shoulders and gently pulled upward to stretch his back.

To Valarr's growing amusement, you struggled to lift him very far.

Your prince was considerably heavier than he appeared.

"May I be of assistance, my lady?"

"Hush you—and sit."

He happily obeyed, though not before casting you a thoroughly mischievous smile.

You punished such insolence by drumming your closed fists lightly across his shoulders and upper back.

"My lady, I yield! I yield!" Valarr laughed.

Who would have thought the crown prince could be such an idiot?

Daeron

The room did not smell of wine but of marzipan, amaretto, and cherries.

Almond.

Which made very little sense, as there wasn't a single almond in sight. Instead, a handful of small glass bottles had been scattered throughout the room: on your nightstand, atop Daeron's desk, and along the shelves. Yet what truly caught your attention was the peculiar-looking table standing near the window, sticking out like a sore thumb among the rest of your furniture.

You turned toward Daeron, eyeing him suspiciously.

"What is this?"

The prince followed you into the room with a playful smile.

"A gift, of course," he replied cheekily, as though you had asked the silliest question imaginable.

You narrowed your eyes even further.

"You're giving me... a table?"

Your prince ignored the question altogether. He strode past you, kicked off his boots, and tossed his waistcoat onto the bed without a care. Then he rolled up his sleeves and walked over to the strange table before turning back to face you.

"I'm giving you a massage, dear," he said teasingly, leaning casually against the table and, in the process, making a rather unnecessary display of his forearms.

His explanation only raised more questions, and you refused to let his flexing muscles distract you.

"You want to give me a massage?" you asked, utterly bewildered.

Half a minute ago, you hadn't even known your husband possessed such a skill.

"If my lady would allow me," he replied, sweeping an arm toward the table with exaggerated gallantry.

Ironically, Daeron had always been more eccentric while sober than when drunk.

You glanced at the rather fragile-looking table before looking down at your gown. It was Daeron's favorite: a magnificent dress bearing the colors of House Dayne, purple and silver. Its intricate embroidery made it every bit as heavy as it was beautiful.

"You should probably take it off," Daeron suggested, the grin on his face making it abundantly clear that he was far from opposed to the idea.

Though you remained fully dressed, your arms instinctively crossed over your chest.

"Have you no shame?" you scolded, your cheeks warming.

Daeron chuckled and tossed a folded white cloth in your direction. You had to hurry forward to catch it before it hit the floor.

You waited a moment for him to offer you the smallest measure of privacy, but the prince remained stubbornly rooted where he stood, his gaze fixed squarely upon you.

Shameless indeed.

"Would you mind?" you finally asked, gesturing for him to turn around.

His smile only widened.

"You do realize we're married, sweetheart?"

You rolled your eyes and motioned more insistently toward the wall behind him.

Feeling unusually magnanimous, Daeron finally obliged, though not without stealing one or two glances over his shoulder while you changed.

"You're insufferable," you complained as you approached the strange table, making sure the cloth did not slip from your grasp.

Using the small step stool placed beside it, you climbed onto the table and lay on your stomach, arranging the cloth so that it covered you from your shoulders down to your knees.

Daeron, however, had other ideas.

You let out a startled squeak as his hands gently adjusted the cloth. Your back was now completely bare, while your legs remained covered.

"Daeron," you protested, suddenly feeling rather exposed.

He answered only by pressing a kiss to your shoulder.

"Just try to relax, love."

Though the gesture soothed you somewhat, it was easier said than done. Through the opening at the head of the table, all you could see were the stone tiles of your bedchamber floor. You heard Daeron pour some almond-scented oil into his hands, but you had no idea what he intended to do next.

Massage was still something of a novelty throughout the Seven Kingdoms. Queen Myriah had helped popularize the practice in the Crownlands, but the Faith of the Seven still held a firm grip upon the people. The art of kneading the body to relieve pain remained widely frowned upon because of its sensual—at times even lustful—associations.

Like any proper lady, you had always been a devout follower of the Seven.

So, even though this was far from the first time Daeron had seen you unclothed, there was something strangely intimate about feeling his hands against your bare skin outside the privacy of your marital bed.

"You're still tense," he observed as his hands glided slowly from your lower back to your shoulders before returning once more.

"I confess I wasn't expecting such a gift," you murmured as the warm sweet almond oil spread across your skin. "Nor did I know you possessed such talent."

Daeron was surprisingly skilled.

His movements were practiced, his touch light yet reassuring.

"My mother taught me," he admitted quietly as he changed techniques.

He gently lifted the muscles of one arm, squeezed them with careful pressure, then slowly released them. He repeated the motion twice more before moving on to the other arm.

"The final months of her pregnancies were hard on her back, and I wanted to help."

A smile tugged at your lips as you pictured a little boy with tousled golden hair, brow furrowed in concentration as he did his very best to ease his mother's aches.

"That was sweet of you."

"I was a sweet child back then," he said with a shrug, tracing slow circles across your back with the tips of his fingers.

The effects of his ministrations were beginning to take hold, and an involuntary sigh escaped your lips.

"You're still a sweet man," you assured him, though your growing relaxation softened the conviction you had hoped to put into your words.

"Few husbands would think to offer their wives a massage simply for the sake of easing their burdens."

"I'm only returning the kindness my lady wife shows me every day."

You meant to tell him that kindness was not something to be repaid.

But then his knuckles began working the muscles of your lower back, and every coherent thought quietly fled your mind.

You closed your eyes, promising yourself you would tell him later.

Aerion

Unlike you, Aerion had never been one to care much for modesty.

Which was why you found him sprawled across the massage table in your chambers, as naked as the day he was born. You quickly threw a cloth over his backside before the sight could embarrass you any further.

The self-proclaimed dragon turned his head toward you, a mocking smile playing on his lips.

"No need to be shy. There's nothing you haven't seen before," he teased.

"If my prince doesn't mind, I'd rather not be distracted," you replied, taking your place beside him.

The mischievous glint in his violet eyes told you Aerion was no fool. He knew perfectly well just how distracting you found him. After all, a single piece of cloth did very little to conceal the rest of his body.

Despite yourself, your gaze lingered over his lithe frame, from his broad shoulders and well-defined back to his sculpted thighs. The prince trained every day to become the greatest knight in the realm, and his body bore ample proof of it. His skin had been bronzed by countless hours beneath the sun, while his lean muscles lacked nothing compared to those of men who relied on brute strength alone.

Aerion had always been a swift fighter, quick on his feet and precise with his sword. A thousand cuts could be just as deadly as a single crushing blow.

Before your thoughts wandered toward the strength hidden in his deceptively slender arms, you gave your head a small shake to chase away such distractions.

Aerion chuckled but wisely refrained from commenting.

Instead, your attention drifted to his thighs.

Though lean and powerful, they were crisscrossed with scars. One in particular stood out from the rest. The wound had come dangerously close to his groin, so close that it had nearly rendered him a eunuch.

Your prince had never explained how he came by such an injury, but you had pieced together the story through conversations with Prince Daeron and the gossip of servants. A hedge knight—whose immense size and brute strength made him seem more beast than man—had been responsible, not only for Aerion's wound but also for the accident that had befallen Prince Baelor.

The injury had severely damaged the muscles and tissues of his thigh, and even now it continued to trouble him, especially whenever rain was on the way.

So when you told him you knew a technique that might ease the lingering pain, Aerion had readily agreed.

Even more so once he learned it involved heated stones.

The prince had always possessed a particular fondness for heat, one you wisely chose not to dwell upon for the sake of more delicate ears.

You glanced around to inspect your preparations.

The servants had placed a small copper pot filled with steaming-hot stones on a nearby table. They varied in size and shape. Beside it sat a bowl of cool water to temper the heat when needed, along with a folded cloth for drying the stones before use.

Without another word, you selected two of the larger stones. After cooling them briefly in the water and patting them dry, you placed them gently against Aerion's thighs.

The prince flinched.

"Careful," he complained.

"I thought dragons didn't mind a little heat," you teased before setting the stones in motion.

You began at his ankles, gliding upward along his calves and behind his knees. When you reached the hollow behind each knee, however, you took care not to apply direct pressure before continuing toward his thighs.

You repeated the movement three more times in slow, continuous strokes.

Then, using the stones, you traced small circles over the muscles of his calves, quadriceps, and hamstrings.

You couldn't help but smile as you felt the tension gradually melt away beneath your hands.

"This isn't the worst idea you've ever had," Aerion admitted, trying very hard to sound unimpressed, though the steady relaxation of his muscles betrayed him.

"You don't say..."

To finish, you switched to flatter stones and began gentle compressions, pressing steadily into the muscles of his thighs before holding the pressure for a moment and slowly releasing it.

You repeated the motion several times before deciding the treatment was complete.

"I'm finished, my prince," you announced.

The look Aerion gave you made it abundantly clear that, in his opinion, you most certainly were not.

Who were you to deny your prince, stubborn as he could sometimes be?

Duncan

"I'm not sure this is a good idea, my lady," Duncan stammered as he lay upon the largest massage table you had ever owned, wearing nothing but his smallclothes.

Thankfully, your back was turned to him, and the hedge knight couldn't see the devilish smile spreading across your face.

You were a masseuse from Dorne and had decided to take advantage of Queen Myriah Martell's influence over Westeros to expand your trade and broaden your clientele. Ever since, you had traveled the roads in your caravan, visiting countless towns and castles to offer your rather uncommon services.

Truth be told, being a masseuse was far more difficult than it sounded, especially since the practice remained largely unknown outside Dorne. More than one customer had mistaken you for a lady of the night and proved deeply disappointed upon learning otherwise. Some had even turned aggressive.

Weary of constantly having to fend for yourself, you had nearly decided to return home when your path crossed that of Ser Duncan.

The man was so tall you had to crane your neck simply to meet his eyes, and his imposing build had immediately frightened away the lout who had been pursuing you. Though he looked more than capable of protecting you, you found it difficult at first to entrust your safety to a man of his size. Life on the road had taught you to be cautious, and you had hesitated before allowing Duncan to sleep beneath your caravan's roof.

Yet his boyish smile and endearing clumsiness soon put your fears to rest.

In the end, you struck a bargain.

In exchange for his protection, he would be welcome to sleep upon one of the spare mattresses in your caravan. Duncan had accepted with obvious relief, admitting he had grown rather tired of waking up soaked to the bone whenever it rained.

Satisfied with the arrangement, the two of you continued your journey toward Ashford Meadow together.

The more time you spent in his company, the more fond of him you became.

As expected, Duncan's strength proved invaluable whenever a fallen tree or an overturned cart blocked the road. More importantly, he was kind. He never hesitated to lend a hand to complete strangers, whether they deserved his generosity or not.

And then, as your affection gradually deepened into something far more dangerous, you discovered another side of him.

Dunk truly was as thick as a castle wall.

You had spent days sending him every signal you could think of: batting your eyelashes, letting your fingertips brush against his arm, wearing your most flattering dresses—anything that might hint at your interest.

Nothing.

Either the man was utterly immune to your charms, or he genuinely failed to notice them.

At last, you decided to play your trump card.

Your massages.

Which explained why the hedge knight now lay half-naked upon your table, entirely at your mercy.

The wooden frame creaked beneath him as he shifted nervously.

"Truly, my lady, I think your talents are wasted on an oaf like me," Duncan continued, beginning to sit up. "I ought to go check on Thunder, anyway—"

"Lie back down, Ser Duncan," you interrupted gently but firmly as you poured a little oil into your hands.

A satisfying thump behind you told you he had obeyed.

"I noticed you've been having pain across your chest, haven't you?" you asked as you walked back toward him.

Duncan nodded awkwardly, a delightful blush spreading from his neck all the way to his cheeks.

Adorable.

"Nothing I'm not used to, miss."

You clicked your tongue.

"Nonsense," you replied, reaching for a small bottle nearby. "You're only saying that because you're nervous."

He shook his head, though his refusal to meet your eyes betrayed him.

"There's no need to be nervous," you assured him softly. "I'm only going to massage the area that's bothering you. By the end of our session, you'll be feeling much better."

This time he nodded with a little more confidence.

You held up the bottle.

"This is jojoba oil," you explained. "It helps my hands glide smoothly over the skin. I'll apply a little first before we begin."

He nodded once more.

Pouring a small amount into your palms, you rubbed your hands together to warm the oil before gently resting them against his chest.

Duncan shivered at the contact but remained perfectly still, his blue eyes carefully following every movement.

Using the broad surface of your palms, you began with slow gliding strokes across his upper chest and shoulders, preparing the muscles beneath your touch. Little by little, the hedge knight relaxed.

Next, using the broad, soft part of your forearm, you glided from the top of his arm toward his breastbone, following the direction of the pectoral muscle fibers. Your movements remained slow and controlled, and you took care to avoid placing unnecessary pressure on sensitive tissue.

After repeating the stroke twice more, you mirrored it on the opposite side.

Then, using the flat surfaces of the middle joints of your fingers, you traced the muscle fibers again with moderate pressure.

Duncan let out a quiet groan.

Immediately, you stopped.

"Am I hurting you?"

He shook his head at once.

"No... It's just... the sensation feels strange. I'm not used to being touched... there. Especially not by a woman."

A fierce blush spread across his face.

"Somehow, I find that hard to believe, ser."

Duncan groaned again, now from embarrassment.

"Don't make fun of me."

You laughed softly but decided not to press the matter. The whole point was to help him relax.

"There's nothing to be embarrassed about," you said reassuringly as you resumed the massage. "It's your first one, after all. Just try to relax."

He nodded, though you could still feel the lingering tension beneath your hands.

You moved on to thumb stripping.

Using the pad of your thumb, you slowly glided from near his upper arm toward the center of his chest, following the pectoral muscle while gradually increasing the pressure so his body could adjust comfortably. After repeating the movement once more, you switched to the opposite side.

Even then, you could tell he wasn't entirely at ease.

You found the last stubborn knot of tension and placed your palm over it, applying steady, sustained pressure.

You held it there for nearly half a minute before gradually easing off.

After repeating the technique a few more times, you finally felt the muscles beneath your hand soften completely.

"Is it over?" Duncan asked dreamily, his eyes still closed.

You couldn't help smiling at how completely he'd melted beneath your hands.

"Almost, love."

You finished the massage with long, slow, feather-light strokes across his chest.

"Now we're done."

Duncan opened his eyes and looked at you with a knowing smile.

Confidence was a new expression on his face.

You discovered, perhaps to your own detriment, that you liked it rather a lot.

Quickly turning away to hide your flustered expression, you crossed the room to return the bottle of jojoba oil to its proper place on the shelf.

"So," you asked, "what did you think?"

Behind you, you heard him climb off the table and approach.

"Very pleasant," he said, stopping close enough that you could feel his warmth. "But my favorite part was when you called me 'love.'"

Your eyes widened.

The bottle slipped from your fingers.

Duncan caught it with the quick reflexes of a seasoned knight before it could shatter on the floor.

As you turned at the sound of his laughter, you realized that perhaps you, too, had become putty in his hands.

Lyonel

You walked straight into Lyonel's back, nearly knocking yourself to the floor.

For some reason, your stag had chosen to freeze in the doorway of your bedchamber, staring into the room as though he'd just seen a ghost.

"What's wrong?" you groaned, rubbing your forehead.

The Lord of Storm's End remained speechless, vaguely gesturing toward something in the middle of the room with the sort of horror usually reserved for true abominations.

As much as you appreciated the rare respite from Lyonel's incessant chatter, his unusual silence was beginning to worry you.

You slipped around him and followed the direction of his hand.

It pointed toward an unusual-looking chair, one you had ordered from Dorne several weeks earlier. The servants had placed it in the middle of the room, where it stood out sharply against the rest of the furniture.

Especially because it wasn't adorned with stags.

"It's a chair, darling," you said matter-of-factly.

Lyonel looked at you as though you had started speaking Valyrian.

"That thing isn't a chair," he declared, still pointing accusingly at it. "It's a bloody torture device!"

To be fair, the chair did look rather peculiar compared to an ordinary one. Although it had a seat, armrests, and a headrest, it had been specially designed for seated massages. Whoever sat upon it leaned forward, resting their chest against the padded support while their arms draped comfortably over the armrest.

"Stop being so dramatic," you sighed, crossing the room to your desk, where the servants had left the oils and bottles you had requested. "It's only a massage chair. It isn't going to eat you."

Your reassurance did little to ease Lyonel's suspicions.

He cautiously poked the chair with one finger, just to make certain.

Rolling your eyes at your husband's theatrics, you reached instead for a bottle of arnica oil, renowned for soothing sore muscles. Though you had repeatedly begged him not to overdo it in the training yard, Lyonel had stubbornly ignored you. As a result, he had spent the past fortnight complaining about his aching back.

Typical.

"Need I remind you," you said, "that trying massages in the bedchamber was your idea?"

Lyonel stared at you with wide, innocent eyes, and you fought to suppress a smile as you approached him.

"Wife," he replied gravely, "you and I have very different ideas about spicing up our marital bed."

You sighed in exasperation, though your cheeks betrayed you by warming.

To hide your embarrassment, you jabbed him lightly in the sore spot he'd bruised during training.

The effect was immediate.

"Cruel woman..." he hissed, clutching his side.

"I'll have you know, you great beast, that massages aren't solely for sensual purposes." You folded your arms. "Now take off your shirt and sit down."

The mischievous grin spreading across Lyonel's face made you seriously consider poking him again.

"As my lady commands."

He made an unnecessarily dramatic spectacle of pulling his tunic over his head.

You made a deliberate effort not to stare for too long at his broad, weathered back and powerful shoulders. The last thing you wanted was to inflate your husband's ego, which was already considerably larger than most men's.

Once he had settled into the chair, you took your place behind him and poured a small amount of arnica oil into your palms, rubbing them together to warm it.

"It's cold," Lyonel complained the instant your hands touched his skin.

"Hush."

Using the broad surface of your palms, you applied moderate pressure as your hands glided down toward his lower back, then returned to his shoulders with lighter strokes. You kept constant contact with his skin throughout, repeating the movement several times to spread the oil evenly.

When you felt him beginning to relax beneath your touch, you started the massage in earnest.

First, you pressed your palms gently against his shoulder blades before gliding upward along the muscles of his back.

Next came your knuckles. Applying firm but controlled pressure, you worked your way from his lower back toward his shoulders, taking your time to sink into the tense muscles. Once you reached his shoulder blades, you steadied his neck with one hand while using the fingertips of the other to trace small circles from his spine outward toward each shoulder.

You then focused on his neck and upper shoulders.

Using your knuckles, you pressed from the base of his skull into his trapezius muscles before warming the entire area with slower, broader strokes.

Once you had thoroughly worked the tension from his neck, you gently rocked his shoulders back and forth, smiling to yourself as your stag gradually melted beneath your hands.

"This is almost as good as bedding you," he admitted.

You resisted the overwhelming urge to smack him upside the head. Undoing all your hard work would have been a terrible shame.

Instead, you moved on to his lower back.

Using your thumbs, you traced slow circles along either side of his sacrum to ease the muscles and tendons of his lower back. Then you switched to your knuckles, working small circular motions across his hips and glutes.

Lyonel shivered.

"You're doing wonders, doll," he sighed.

You smiled, grateful to have learned such a useful art.

"Though I reckon you'd do an even better job if I took my trousers off," he added.

You rolled your eyes.

"Perhaps later," you replied with a smile as you straightened.

To finish, you moved on to his scalp.

Using your fingertips, you traced slow circles from the nape of his neck toward the crown of his head, gradually working your way up to the base of his skull. After a few slow passes, you increased the pace slightly, using the heels of your palms to gently stimulate the muscles beneath his hair.

When your hands finally left him, Lyonel turned to look at you with hopeful eyes.

Your index finger lingered beneath his jaw as you leaned close enough for only him to hear.

"Now you may take them off."

Because when you step through the apartment door after work, the entire place is glowing in warm candlelight. Soft music hums low from the record player. Something smells like vanilla and something else like sandalwood. And Bucky—your ridiculous, beautiful, over-the-top husband—is leaning against the kitchen counter wearing sweatpants slung indecently low on his hips and a stupidly soft smile.

“Before you say anything,” he murmurs, pushing off the counter to meet you halfway. “You said you didn’t want a big Valentine’s thing. This—” he gestures around the room “—is not big. This is… cozy.”

“Cozy?” you ask, glancing at the dozens of flickering candles.

He shrugs. “Romantic cozy.”

You can’t help it—you laugh, stepping into his chest. His arms wrap around you instantly, warm and secure.

“I just wanted to make tonight easy for you, doll,” he murmurs into your hair. “No crowds. No pressure. Just us.”

And God, he means it. Bucky loves you with a full, earnest intensity that never needs grand gestures—just the quiet kind, the soft kind, the kind that makes your chest ache.

“Okay,” you whisper, tipping your head back to look up at him. “What did you do?”

“Nothing much.” Which of course means: everything.

First comes the bath.

He guides you to the bathroom where he’s drawn a warm tub, steam curling into the air, rose petals floating lazily on the surface. There’s a stack of fluffy towels waiting, candles lining the perimeter, and Bucky kneels down so he can take your shoes off like it’s a privilege.

“You are unreal,” you breathe.

He grins up at you. “Get in, sweetheart. Lemme spoil you.”

You slip into the hot water with a sigh that feels like it leaves your bones.

Bucky climbs in behind you, long legs bracketing yours, metal arm draped carefully along the tub’s edge so you can lean back into him without hesitation. He kisses your shoulder once… twice… then keeps going, a trail of lazy affection up your neck.

His voice is low, nearly a purr. “Missed you today.”

“You always miss me,” you tease.

“Damn right I do.”

You sink against his chest, and his hands begin to move—slow, purposeful, kneading into your muscles like he has all night and nothing else in the world matters.

The touches start innocent. Loving. But Bucky Barnes has never known how to touch you without wanting more.

His palms smooth over your stomach, then up, fingertips grazing the swell of your breasts with a reverence that makes your breath catch.

“James,” you whisper.

“Mhm.”

“That’s not very innocent.”

“That’s not very Valentine’s of you, doll,” he murmurs against your ear, giving the lobe a gentle nip. “Tellin’ your husband he can’t touch you when you’re makin’ those little noises.”

Your face heats. You are making noises—soft, lazy ones you only make when you feel safe.

You turn slightly in his arms, water shifting around you, and kiss him. It’s slow at first, melting. But then he deepens it, hand coming up to cradle your jaw just the way you like, and suddenly you’re leaning into him like gravity itself is pulling you there.

When you break away, you're breathless.

“Bed,” he says quietly. “Now.”

You don’t argue.

---

The bedroom is even softer lit than the rest of the apartment. Fresh sheets. Plush pillows. The kind of atmosphere that makes you feel treasured before he even touches you.

He lays you down gently, climbing between your legs with a warm, worshipful look that always makes your heart stutter.

“No expectations,” he reminds you, brushing your knee with a thumb. “Not doin’ this because it’s Valentine’s. I just… wanna make you feel good.”

You cup his cheek. “I always feel good when you’re with me.”

Something flickers in his eyes—something tender and overwhelming—and he lowers himself, kissing the inside of your thigh with obscene slowness.

“Sweetheart,” he exhales, settling between your legs like he was made for this. “You smell so good.”

You arch when his breath ghosts over you.

“Relax for me,” he whispers.

And then he licks you—one slow stroke that has your spine bowing off the mattress. Bucky moans at the taste, fingers gripping the backs of your thighs to hold you open.

He devours you like it’s his purpose. Soft but greedy. Patient but hungry.

Every time you whimper his name, he goes deeper, sucking gently, murmuring praises against your skin.

“That’s it, doll… so sweet for me…” “Let me take care of you…” “Good girl… just like that…”

When you come, it’s soft but shattering, your fingers tangled in his hair as warmth floods your whole body.

He doesn’t let go of your thigh. Doesn’t stop touching you. Just kisses your hip and climbs up your body to press his forehead to yours.

“Happy Valentine’s,” he whispers, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek.

“You did too much,” you murmur, still dazed and blissful.

“Nah.” He smiles softly. “Just enough.”

You curl into him, and he pulls the blankets over both of you, arm snug around your waist.

You drag Robby to the toilet letting his sit down with a groan. You stand between his opened legs and cup his jaw. Pressing kisses to his nose, and cheeks. "I'm gonna get these dirty scrubs off ya, okay?" You ask and he just nods. You smile down at him. "Arms up."

Grabbing the hem of the dark blue scrub top, Robby moves his arms so you can drag the rest of it over his head and throw it into the dirty laundry bin near the door. Then comes the white shirt underneath. When Robby is half-exposed he grab at your own shirt. "I'll get undressed when you're naked Mister." You tease.

He groans but understand that tonight isn't about anything but him, a feeling that he doesn't really enjoy, but for you he'll do anything. For you he'll sit through the uncomfortable feeling in his gut. You have Robby stand and help him out of his cargo pants, and boxers. "Get in the water, I'll be right behind you." You tell him sweetly, watching your sweet savior of a man step into the steaming water and hear him groan as the water starts to works his over worn and tired muscles.

You strip your clothes quickly, and shut the bathroom. Making sure that the two towels are sitting on the heated towel rack before you slip in behind Robby. You can tell the hot water is working his muscles, as his shoulder start to fall and he rests the back of his head on your shoulder. You grab at the forgotten wash cloth on the side of the tub, dipping into the hot water, "Close your eyes, Robby." You say quietly not wanting to disturb the peace the two of you have found in the tub together.

Robby listens to you. You press the hot towel over his features. Waiting for a few moments, before dragging it down his face gently. Pulling the dirt, sweat, city grime, and stress away. Robby believes that he has to be a strong man, because the ER has forced him into that position. Be strong for his patients, be strong for his interns, and nurses. Be strong for you.

For right now though he feels himself slipping from his role. He feels how you hold him, tilting his head gently to the side, and scrub behind his ears a place that Robby tends to forget about in the pre-work showers. Then how you drag the wash cloth along his jaw, his stubble grabbing at the soft cotton. Finally you drag the soft wet cotton cloth down the column of his throat. Your well manicured fingers dragging gentle over his adam's apple.

Robby forces his eyes open at your touch, "Robby will you grab the sugar scrub?" you ask. Right now in this state you could probably ask Robby to kill someone for you and he'd forget all about the Hippocratic oath he'd taken many years ago. "Of course angel." He mutters grabbing the small container that is just out of your reach and giving it to you over his shoulder.

He can hear you unscrew the top of the container. What he feels next he can only say is both relaxing and grating against his skin. The wash cloth from before drags agasint his skin that is exposed above the waterline. In small patterns you rub the sugar scrub into his skin. "That feel good, Robby?" You ask as you wait for his response.

Robby can't help the low sound that almost is a sigh of contentment. You smile, knowing that you can now continue. You drape the wash cloth over the rack. You massage his shoulder just under the water. Your thumbs sink into the tight knots until you feel them give loose. All while Robby groans and moans at the sensation of being taken care.

You grab the wash cloth again and Robby tilts forward. The water sloshes back and forth with his movement. You wash down his back, as you wash his back and skin you count the freckles that are strewn across his body. When you're done with his back you glide him back into your warm chest.

Robby brings both of his hands up and lets you grab ahold of his fingers. Each finger you clean individually. Running the wash cloth over his long fingers and then pressing a kiss into each knuckle when you're done.

Ringing out the wash clothe before throwing into the laundry basket. "I'm gonna wash your hair okay." You tell him as you wash him close his eyes and hum. You cup water in your hand and watch as it cascades down his scalp. You lather his shampoo in your fingers, and palms before gentle stroking it through his short brown hair.

Your well manicured nails barely scratching at his scalp, slow enough that Robby seems to be able to slow his breathing. It's a deep and steady breath every time and you know he's just melting against you. Robby melts in parts, first his shoulder seems to drop even more then before, then his neck and his head leans to one side, finally Robbys jaw loosen and his lips part just enough that he's pushing air from his mouth every time he breaths.

You let the shampoo sit in his hair for a moment before repeating the process of getting his hair wet. Making sure to keep the soap from his eyes. Robbys eyes open like he wants to thank you, but the relaxation has taken over his bones. It's not the same as when he walked in through the apartment door and wasn't able to answer your question. That was due to the stress, and fatigue. This is because he's melting into your touch the longer the two of you stay pressed together.

The water goes cold, and you're scooting out form behind him. Grabbing your towels. You help Robby stand and for the first time in a long time his knees don't crack as he stands up straight. You wrap the towel around Robby waist, and then wrap your towel around your chest. Robby sinks into the heat that the towel gives off from being on the heated towel rack.

You sink down to the floor in front of the sink, digging around in the cabinet. "What are you lookin' for angel?" Robby ask, his voice is filled with tiredness. "Don't you worry about it Robby." You say sweetly, finally managing to grab what you had been looking for. He nods and waits for you to return to him.

You once again sink down to your knee, this time in front of a half wet, half tired Robby. You flip the cap on the lotion bottle, and squeeze a sizable amount into your hand and warm it up between your palms. Robby brings is arms down, and lets you smoother his hairy arms in the lotion. You move on to his chest dragging the lotion over his pecs, and then his little tummy.

Lastly work the lotion into his claves. Slow and steady pushing the tight muscles until they loosen and Robby goes limp. Showing you just how much he trust you, how pliant you can make him under your small, warm, hands. "Bed?" You ask, "Yes, angel." You nod, and stand up.

You lead into the bedroom, and sit him on the edge of his side of the bed. You leave him there long enough to grab a pair of boxers, and t-shirt of his from the closet. You come back dressed in your own clothes. You make quick work to drag the shirt over his shoulder and stomach while Robby drags the boxers up his legs and snap them around his hips.

Robby falls into the mattress with a soft, and quiet grunt, his eyes falling closed with every passing second. You slip in behind him, and breath him in for the first time all night long. He's so loose in your grip. You brush Robbys wet hair back, and press a kiss to his temple. "Sleep now baby." You murmur gently. Robby doesn't last a minute before his breathing goes deep, and even.

The Next Morning

Robby wakes up when the cast of the morning sun falls over his tired, and worn face. The first thing that Robby takes in is how theres a warmth in his bone that he hasn't felt in years. There's a softness agasint his skin, and he smells like your lotion you apply after a deep needed shower, or bath. The smell clings to his skin and he prays that it will still be there when he goes back to work in a few days.

For a while Robby doesn't dare move in the bed, just breath deeply in and deeply back out. In pieces his memory floats back to him. The way you let him crumble into his lap when he walked in through the door. The softness in your voice as you dragged him off to the bathroom. The candles, and lavender, and the bath. The quiet as you massaged his aching muscles, and gave him the time.

For the first time in a long time his muscles don't feel like they are actively betraying him. He takes another deep breath in and blinks slowly. You're still asleep, and tucked into his side. Your hair is a little messy, but your face is relaxed as you dream. Something in his heart cracks, and he knows what he's doing to do.

You had taken care of him. Really truly taken care of him, not because it was something you were forced to do not because Robby had asked (Not that he'd ever ask) but because you wanted to take care of him. He lets himself lay in the feeling for a few moments more, staring down at your beautiful sleeping face. He can feel that burn in the back of his throat the one that says (if you don't stop looking at her, you're gonna cry). He can't help the words that come out of his mouth in a whisper "I should do somethin' for you Angel."

Robby slips from the bed, with an ease he hasn't felt in years. Carefully, and quietly hoping not to wake you up he pads from the bedroom to the kitchen. He tries to rub the sleep from his eyes with the heel of his palm. Robby still feels loose, and heavy mostly from the sleep he's gotten. Yet the thought of you still asleep under the warm sheets has Robby standing tall, and moving a little quicker.

A thought passes his mind, and has him reeling as he stands in the kitchen. 'What do you even get, or do for someone who just did something for you out of the kindness of their heart.' Looks around the kitchen and his eyes land on the fridge. Robby opens it and realizes that you two might need to go on a grocery trip.

Staring into fridge feels like a eon. Nothing really seems to jump out at him, nothing speaks to him as he moves condiments, and leftovers around in the fridge. That is until he lands on the fruit in the plastic containers. "Okay" He mutters to himself as he pulls the fruit from the fridge and rolls his shoulders. "Pancakes, and fruit. I can handle that." He says to himself.

Robby is a great doctor, an amazing chief attending. Robby can handle the most horrible cases that roll through his ER, but he can not handle making pancakes. The first pancake is burnt, and too thin. The second is thick and breaks when he goes to flip it on the pan. The third one sticks to the pan, all because he forgot to spray the pan down.

"Fuckin' Jesus." He whispers as he tries again. He goes to flip the pancake and it doesn't flip instead it folds in on itself. Robby has a staring competition with the pancake for a minute, before contemplating throwing the entire pan out the window and uber eating something to the apartment door.

Robby takes a deep breath in and then out again. He tries once more, and this time it doesn't seem like a huge fail. The pancake is a little burnt around the edges, but the middle is cooked through and he flips it with ease. He's exhales like he's back in the ER again. Robby removes it from the pan and put it on a plate before mutter to himself. "Okay, so only have three more… it will be fine."

He gets through the next three pancakes with out too many frail ups, and then he's off to grabbing a cutting board and slicing the fruit with an intense concentration. His tongue is pressed out to the side of his cheek, his brows are furrowed like he's working the hardest surgery of his life. Not cutting strawberries. Robby just wants it to look nice for you, because you deserve nice. Hell you deserve then nice, but for right now this is all Robby can manage.

Robby goes rummaging through the closet, and finds a tray. He's quick to arrange everything on the tray and makes sure it looks perfect, but something is missing from the setup. Robby puts the tray down on the table and goes into the bathroom, grabbing your bottle of lotion you had just used on him last night. The bathroom still smells amazing and it calms him slightly.

Robby sets the bottle on the tray. He stares for a minute to long and his confidence starts to fade. He shakes his head and looks up towards you bedroom. "You're gonna do this Micheal. Now get your ass in gear." He mutters himself under his breath and carries the tray towards the bedroom.

He pauses in the doorway.

You're sitting up now, mostly awake but still under the sheets and blanket. Blinking at him with sleep in your eyes still. Robby swallows hard so much that it hurts his adam's apple. "Mornin', angel." You smile up at him. It a soft and small one that melts him. Hits in right in his chest and ribs. His body is moving all on it's own now.

Robby steps into the room with the tray still in hands. The weight pushing him forward. "I… um… I tired to make pancakes. I also was… I wanted to return." Robby stands uncomfortable at the edge of the bed. He shifts the tray in his hand. Holding the bottle of lotion. "I wanna… I was gonna give you a massage like you did for me last night." He rambles.

You have to hide the grin that is blooming over your features, and it causes Robby to fluster. "I just thought I could return the favor." He musters. You shift on the bed, and the sheets fall as you come up to the edge of the bed. You press your hand into his chest, and his chest goes tight and his heart beats quickly against your palm.

"Oh Robby, you didn't have to do all this." He nods, "I know" He lowers himself and the tray to the bed, robby voice goes soft and seems to wear at the edges. "I wanted to, that's all that matters to me." He can't met his wives gaze right now, because he's close to crying and Robby doesn't want to do that right now. This is no time for a breakdown.

When you press a kiss into his cheek, Robby goes still, and then melts into the bed quicker then he did when his feet had touched the hot bath water. He watches from the corner of his eye has you devour the food.

You have settled back into the bed, but this time your back is exposed and bare for him to something equivalent to giving you a massage. 'okay, just breath. It's not that hard. People do this for their wives all the time.' Robby stares down at the lotion bottle in his hand it's so much smaller in his hands then it was in yours last night. 'she made it look so fuckin' effortless, she just touched me and it was like she knew exactly what she was doing. She got every knot.'

Robbys inner monologue won't shut up, but he wants his wife to be happy, and comfortable. He shakes the bottle in his hand and reads the label. 'god she's got so many lotions, why are they're so many different lotion, and why is this one sparkly? This isn't what she used on me last night.' "Well shit." Robby lets slip. 'What's wrong Robby?" You ask from your position on the bed. "I grabbed the wrong one." he admits. "That's okay baby. Use it anyways." You tell him sweetly.

Robby squeezes some into his palm and looks down at your back then back at his palm again. 'what is even pampering? This just feels messy, and gross.' He wants to do right by you, but something is his stomach twists and rolls over, its not nerves, or fear. Just something softer and kinder. It feels all to big for his chest.

Even though Robby and you have been married for a few years now, Robby is still secretive about the idea of you taking care of him, of you doing the heavy lifting. He doesn't like to let you seem him breaking down. Last night was the first time that you had seen him like that. 'how the hell can she look at me like that? No judgement behind her eyes, just kindness. After seeing my have an internal breakdown. I've never allowed to just take care of me like that.'

Robby sits down behind his wife, his hands hovering over her soft shoulder blades. it's not like he hasn't touched you before, but that's different. Everything about this is different. 'For fucks sake, touch her. Gently, also this isn't like your arresting somebody. Holy fuck stop shaking.' When Robby starts to rub you shoulders, his hands slip from the slipperiness of the lotion agasint your skin. You giggle as his fingers move to quickly.

Robby seems to short-circuit, and then he's rebooting. 'Don't panic you goof, she's just ticklish and it's not because you're horrible at this.' Robby adjusts, slows his hands down, and starts again after a deep exhale. Your head dips forward a little and your back relaxes into his touch. 'see this is working, but maybe this is just her being nice to me, she's always so nice to me.'

Robby kneads deeper into your muscles, and the sigh you let is an unguarded one that sounds like you're melting into the fabric of the bed. It warms his spine and makes Robby continue. 'see I can take care of her too. Not as good her, cause my wives hands are magic… but I can try.' You whisper his name and it's filled with sleep and tenderness.

Robby's heart breaks just a little, "I love you, angel" He mutters under his breath, you smile and Robby can tell from the way your ears shift ever so slightly. "I love you too, Robby." Robby leans forward gentle, and presses a few careful kisses to your shoulder, and head.

"Are you comfortable, angel?" He asks, you hum and lean into his large hands as they work your back muscles. 'Fuck I'd do anything for you, anything. Even pancakes…' He shakes his head and grimaces at the three fucked up pancakes sitting in the trash can burnt, and disgusting in the trash.

'Maybe not pancakes, but literally anything else I'd do for you. All of it, all for you.'