My chest ached with the memory.
It'll hurt less with time, I told myself. That's what people said, right? That heartbreak faded, that you moved on, that eventually you stopped seeing someone's face every time you closed your eyes.
Lars was a good client. Easy. He usually just wanted oral—straightforward, uncomplicated blow jobs, maybe a finger up his ass.
I could do this. I'd been doing this for seven years.
I just needed to stop comparing everyone to Cord.
At three exactly, a knock sounded. I took a breath, found my professional smile, and opened the door.
“Dusty.” Lars stepped inside wearing loose linen pants and a soft shirt. Norwegian, mid-forties, with the kind of generational wealth that didn't need to announce itself. He’d stopped by my yoga studio many times, each time he visited The Ranch. “Thank you for fitting me in.”
“Of course. How are you feeling today?”
“Tense. My shoulders are a disaster.” He glanced around the studio with the appreciation he always showed for the space. “I've been looking forward to this all week.”
“Let's see what we can do.” I gestured to the mats I'd laid out. “We'll start with some stretching, see where your body needs attention.”
Lars nodded, already pulling off his shirt. He settled onto the mat with the ease of someone comfortable in his body, comfortable with this arrangement.
I kneeled beside him, hands finding his shoulders. The familiar knots were there. He carried stress in his upper back, always had. I worked the muscles gently, feeling for where he held tension.
“That's good,” he murmured. “Right there.”
My hands moved lower, following the line of his spine. This was the part where the yoga became something else, where professional touch shifted into intimate contact. Lars shifted beneath my hands, responding to the pressure.
I guided him through a hip opener, hands on his thighs, adjusting the angle. His breath deepened. The afternoon light was warm on both our skin.
“Come here,” Lars said quietly, reaching for me.
I moved closer. He turned his head to kiss me, and I was already leaning in when he stopped.
His gaze had caught on something past my shoulder.
“Is that your work?” He was staring at the bench near the windows, at the open portfolio.
I followed his gaze to the visible sketches. Cord sleeping. Cord laughing by the creek.
“Yeah. Just some drawings.”
Lars sat up fully now, the intimate moment broken. “May I look?”
I should've said no. Should've redirected him back to the mats, to what we'd scheduled. But something made me nod.
He stood and walked to the bench, picking up the portfolio with careful hands. I stayed on the mat, watching as heflipped through pages. His expression shifted to surprise, then something deeper. Appreciation, maybe. Or recognition.
“These are extraordinary,” he said quietly.
“They're personal.”
“That's what makes them extraordinary.” He looked up at me, those clear blue eyes serious. “I collect art, have for years. And this… this has something most gallery work doesn't. Honesty. You're not hiding in these.”
I was quiet, unsure what to say.
Lars turned another page—Cord in warrior pose on the cabin porch—and I had to look away. “Have you shown these anywhere?”
“No. They're private.”
