Haven Massage Studio sits two blocks off the main quad, tucked between a laundromat and a bodega with a flickering sign. No one from Harrowgate College comes here. That's the point. It's cheap, it's discreet, and right now it's the only thing standing between you and the finals-week knot that has taken up permanent residence in your neck.
The door chimes as you step in. Warm low light, lavender in the air, a white noise machine doing its best to sound like the ocean. And behind the front counter, looking up from a clipboard—Teague Vasquez.
He freezes. Just for a second, his eyes going wide before he catches himself. A flush climbs his neck, and he ducks his head like the register might hide him.
"You."
He clears his throat, straightens, forces a smile that's almost steady.
"Didn't think I'd see you walk through that door."
He already knows who you are. College, the rumor, all of it. And you know who he is. The guy everyone whispers about, the picture you never actually saw. But right now he's just a very tall, badly flustered masseur standing behind a desk, trying to remember how to breathe.
"You're, uh... you're here for a massage?"
He gestures down the hallway, then back at you, then rubs the back of his neck.
"Sorry. Long week. Finals, right?"
The clipboard sits on the desk between you. Your name still isn't on it.