Part 11: The Finish Line
Race morning arrived like a quiet promise after a sleepless night.
Stephanie’s alarm buzzed at 3:15 a.m., but she was already awake—curled in Emma’s narrow bed, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. Her body felt heavy, eyes gritty from only three fractured hours of sleep. The kiss in the Ritz room replayed in fragments: the warmth of Chris’s mouth, the way she’d pushed away, the sting of Jude’s words in the hallway. She had slipped out before dawn without waking him, leaving a Post-it on the fridge: “Gone for race. Back by noon. Love you.”
She dressed quietly in the dark—black sports bra, navy compression leggings, fresh socks, the timing chip already pinned to her shoe. A quick glance in the mirror: toned abs, defined shoulders, legs that had carried her through months of training. She looked ready. She felt anything but.
Grab to Marina Bay was silent. She arrived at the Ritz-Carlton lobby at 4:20 a.m. The group was already gathering—Lina stretching against a pillar, Mei sipping electrolyte drink, Raj and Wei checking watches. Chris stood near the entrance, in his black singlet and shorts, earbuds dangling, eyes scanning the crowd until he saw her.
Their gazes met.
No words at first. Just a small nod from him, a tight smile from her. The awkwardness from last night hung between them—thin, fragile, but not unbreakable.
“Morning,” he said softly when she approached.
“Morning,” she replied. “Sorry about… last night.”
He shook his head once. “Nothing to be sorry for. We’re good?”
She exhaled. “We’re good.”
The tension eased like a knot slowly loosening. Not gone entirely, but set aside—for the race, for the 21.1 km ahead.
The group moved to a quiet spot near the start village for pre-race stretches. They formed a loose circle under the pre-dawn lights: dynamic leg swings, arm circles, hip openers. Chris stood beside her, mirroring her movements. No touches. No lingering looks. Just quiet solidarity.
At 4:50 a.m., they walked to their corral—Wave B, half-marathon. The air was thick with humidity, the sky still dark, thousands of runners buzzing with nervous energy. Music pumped from speakers, MC calling out waves.
5:00 a.m. sharp.
The buzzer sounded. The crowd surged forward in a slow, then accelerating wave.
Chris and Stephanie hi-fived—palms meeting with a solid slap—then fell into stride together. The rest of the Punggol group fanned out around them, cheers rising: “Let’s goooo!” “Half done already!” Laughter and encouragement bounced between them as they crossed the timing mat.
The first 10 km flew by in a blur of lights and motion. Esplanade, Fullerton Hotel, Marina Bay Sands glowing like a golden ship. The group stayed mostly together—chatting, motivating, passing gels and water at aid stations. Stephanie felt strong at first; legs turning over easily, breathing controlled. Chris matched her pace without comment, a steady presence at her shoulder.
At 12 km, the elite runners and faster amateurs pulled ahead, disappearing into the distance. The Punggol group began to string out too—Lina and Mei pushing tempo, Raj and Wei dropping back slightly. Soon it was just Stephanie and Chris running side by side, the rest scattered but still visible in glimpses.
She glanced at him around 14 km. “You can go ahead, you know. Don’t have to babysit me.”
He shook his head. “Not babysitting. Teammate. We finish together.”
She smiled—small, grateful—and kept going.
At 16 km, fatigue hit like a wall.
The lack of sleep caught up first—her eyelids felt heavy, focus wavering. Then the cramps: sharp twinges in both calves, then a deeper ache in her quads. She slowed, grimacing, trying to shake it out.
Chris noticed instantly. “Cramping?”
“Yeah… legs locking up.”
He guided her to the side of the road near an aid station. “Sit for ten seconds. Let me help.”
She dropped onto the curb. He knelt in front of her, hands gentle but firm—thumbs digging into her calves, rolling the muscle in slow circles, then up to her quads. The pressure hurt at first, then eased as the knots loosened.
“Better?” he asked after a minute.
“A bit. Thanks.”
He helped her stand. “We walk 200 metres, then jog again. No rush. We’ve got time.”
She nodded. They walked—him massaging her leg every 500 metres or so, quick stops at water points. She felt bad—guilty that he was sacrificing his own race pace to stay with her.
“You’re wasting your run on me,” she said quietly at 18 km.
Chris looked at her sideways. “Company matters more than time. I’m exactly where I want to be.”
The words settled warm in her chest. She kept moving.
By 20 km, she was down to a shuffle. Legs felt like lead. Breathing ragged. The finish arch was visible in the distance—lights, crowds, music—but every step felt impossible. She stumbled once; Chris caught her elbow.
“I can’t run anymore,” she whispered, tears pricking. “I’m done.”
“You’re not done,” he said firmly. “You’re almost there. Just walk with me. We’ll run the last bit.”
She leaned on him slightly—his arm around her waist for support, steady and sure. They walked the final kilometre together, her leaning into his side, his pace matched perfectly to hers.
At the 100-metre mark, the crowd noise swelled. Spectators cheering, cowbells ringing, finish-line music thumping.
Chris squeezed her hand. “Ready?”
She looked up at him—sweat-streaked, exhausted, eyes shining. “Yeah.”
He took her hand properly—fingers interlaced. “Let’s run it in.”
They broke into a slow jog—painful, awkward, but forward. Five metres from the line, they released each other’s hands simultaneously. Arms up in victory, smiles wide despite the burn.
They crossed together—timing chip beeping, official photo capturing the moment: Stephanie with tears streaming, Chris beaming beside her.
She stopped just past the arch, hands on knees, sobbing—happy, overwhelmed, disbelieving sobs.
“I did it,” she gasped. “I actually did it.”
Chris pulled her into a hug—tight, sweaty, full of pride. He patted the back of her head gently, like soothing a child.
“You did more than do it,” he murmured. “You fucking crushed it.”
The rest of the group converged—Lina, Mei, Raj, Wei—cheering, high-fiving, hugging. “Steph! You legend!” “First half done—welcome to the club!” “That last push? Insane!”
Their encouragement washed over her—bright, genuine, lifting the exhaustion and the earlier hurt. She wiped her face, laughing through tears.
Chris stayed close—arm around her shoulders now, casual but protective. No words about last night. No pressure. Just presence.
They collected medals, finisher tees, posed for group photos. Stephanie stood in the centre, medal around her neck, abs still glistening under the morning sun, surrounded by people who had seen her at her strongest and weakest.
For the first time in a long time, she felt unbreakable.
Not because of the distance.
But because she had finished it—on her terms, with people who believed in her.
And the man beside her, hand brushing hers one last time as they walked toward the recovery area, had never once made her feel anything less.
Part 12.1 - After the run
The finish-line energy lingered like static electricity as the Punggol Waterway Runners gathered in a loose circle near the recovery tents. Medals clinked against chests, finisher photos were snapped, electrolyte drinks passed around. Everyone was sweaty, flushed, euphoric—but Sunday mornings in Singapore families wait. Lina hugged Stephanie tightly. “You were incredible, girl. Rest that body. We’ll see you in January—the group’s taking December off to recover and eat all the festive food.”
Mei squeezed her shoulder. “First half-marathon done. Proud of you. Text us when you get home safe.”
Raj and Wei gave fist-bumps and quick goodbyes, already checking Grab apps for the ride back to the north-east. One by one they peeled away—taxis, carpool rides, MRT plans—until only Stephanie and Chris remained under the brightening sky.
She shifted weight onto her good leg, wincing slightly. The cramps from the final kilometres had dulled to a deep, throbbing ache in both calves and the back of her right thigh. Chris noticed immediately.
“Your bag’s still upstairs,” he said quietly. “Come on. I’ll walk slow with you.”
They moved together at a careful limp across the Esplanade promenade, past the morning joggers and early tourists snapping photos of the Marina Bay skyline now gilded by the rising sun. No hurry. No need to speak much. Their shoulders brushed occasionally—accidental at first, then deliberate in the smallest way. The awkwardness from last night had dissolved somewhere between the 16 km massage stops and the hand-hold across the finish line. What remained was something quieter, warmer, unspoken but understood.
They reached the Ritz-Carlton lobby at 9:15 a.m. The breakfast lounge was still open until 10:30. Stephanie glanced at the elegant spread visible through the glass doors—fresh pastries, fruit platters, eggs Benedict, dim sum baskets steaming gently.
“If I go up to shower and change first, breakfast will be over,” she said.
Chris tilted his head. “We’re already disgusting. Let’s eat like this. Running gear and all. No one will care.”
She laughed—soft, tired, genuine. “Fine. But if anyone stares at my sweaty back, it’s your fault.”
They were seated at a corner table overlooking the bay. The server didn’t blink at their attire; marathon morning was forgiving. Stephanie piled her plate with watermelon, yogurt, smoked salmon, a single pain au chocolat for celebration. Chris took eggs, bacon, black coffee. They ate slowly, forks moving in companionable rhythm.
“Remember kilometre 18?” he asked. “You said, ‘I can’t run anymore.’ And then you ran the last 100 metres holding my hand.”
She smiled down at her plate. “I remember you saying company matters more than time. I think that kept me going more than the gels.”
He reached across the table, brushed a crumb from the corner of her mouth with his thumb—casual, tender. “You kept me going too. Watching you refuse to quit… that’s what made it special.”
Her eyes met his. “I’m glad you stayed with me. Really glad.”
A quiet beat passed. The bay sparkled outside. Neither looked away.
At 10:00 a.m., the lounge began to clear. Breakfast service wound down. Stephanie pushed her plate aside.
“Time to change and head home,” she said reluctantly.
Chris stood first, offered his arm. “Lean on me. Those calves are still angry.”
She did. They limped together to the lift, her hand tucked into the crook of his elbow. The ride to the 28th floor was silent except for their breathing. When the doors opened, the corridor was empty, sunlight pouring through the windows at the end.
Chris swiped the keycard. The door swung open……
Part 12.2 - Bubbles
The room was transformed by morning light.
Marina Bay lay before them in full golden splendor—Supertrees gleaming, water like liquid sapphire, the Singapore Flyer a slow-turning wheel of white against azure sky. The king bed was still neatly made, sheets crisp. The deep soaking bathtub sat against the floor-to-ceiling glass like an invitation.
Stephanie stopped just inside the doorway, breath caught.
“It’s even more beautiful in daylight,” she whispered.
Chris closed the door behind them. “Shower first? You’re soaked in sweat. Just changing won’t help.”
She glanced at the tub. Bubbles beckoned from the amenity basket on the marble ledge—lavender-scented, luxurious. She had never bathed in anything so extravagant.
“I… want to try the tub,” she admitted, cheeks warming. “But only if you promise not to peek.”
He raised both hands, smiling. “Scout’s honour. I’ll stay out here. Door stays closed.”
She picked up her duffel, walked to the bathroom. The door had no lock—just a push-to-close mechanism. She turned back, playful warning in her voice.
“Seriously, Chris. No peeking.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
She shut the door.
Inside, steam began to rise as she turned both taps. Hot water thundered into the deep porcelain tub. She opened the bubble bath—thick, fragrant liquid—and poured generously. Foam bloomed instantly, white clouds filling the air with lavender and vanilla.
She stepped to the full-length mirror opposite the tub.
Her reflection stared back—sweaty, flushed, triumphant.
She lifted the hem of her sports bra slowly, peeling the damp fabric up and over her head. Small, firm breasts sprang free, nipples already peaked from the cool air and lingering adrenaline. She traced the line of her collarbone, down the shallow valley between her breasts, over the defined ridges of her abs—earned, hard-won. Her fingers skimmed lower, following the V of her hips disappearing into the waistband of her leggings.
She hooked thumbs into the high waistband and pushed down. The glossy Lycra rolled over her hips, past the firm curve of her backside, down toned thighs. Panties followed—simple black cotton now clinging with sweat. She stepped out of them, completely bare.
In the mirror: a woman who had run 21.1 km on three hours’ sleep. Legs still trembling slightly, but sculpted. Glutes rounded and high. Skin glowing with exertion. She turned sideways, admiring the sweep of her spine, the gentle flare of her hips, the faint tan lines from running tops. For the first time in years she looked at her naked body and felt pride instead of criticism.
She stepped under the rain shower first—hot water cascading over shoulders, breasts, stomach, thighs. She lathered shower gel between her palms, washing away salt and sweat. Hands glided over breasts, thumbs circling nipples until they tightened further. Down her stomach, between her legs—slow, thorough, almost reverent. She rinsed, stepped out dripping, walked to the now-full tub.
Without towelling off, she lifted one leg over the edge and sank in.
The heat enveloped her instantly—silky, fragrant bubbles clinging to skin. She sighed deeply, sinking until water lapped at her collarbone, breasts half-submerged, nipples peeking through foam like dark rosebuds. She leaned back against the curved edge, arms draped along the sides, and gazed out at Marina Bay. Sunlight danced on the water. The city looked impossibly beautiful from up here.
She reached for the bottle of water on the ledge, drank deeply—throat working, droplets sliding down her neck and between her breasts.
Then the cramp hit.
A vicious, lightning bolt of pain in her right calf—muscle seizing, knotting, pulling her leg straight in reflex. She cried out—sharp, involuntary.
“Steph?!” Chris’s voice through the door, urgent.
“It’s a cramp—my calf—it hurts!”
The door flew open.
Chris stepped in—still in his running singlet and shorts, eyes wide with concern. He froze for half a second when he saw her: submerged in bubbles, skin flushed pink from heat, wet hair clinging to shoulders, breasts rising and falling with each pained breath, dark nipples visible through shifting foam.
He didn’t stare. He moved.
“Which leg?”
“Right—calf—ahh!”
He knelt beside the tub without hesitation. One hand slid into the water, found her right calf under the bubbles. His fingers dug in—firm, practised, thumbs pressing deep into the knotted muscle, rolling in slow, strong circles. The pain flared, then eased under the pressure.
“Breathe,” he murmured. “In through nose, out through mouth. Relax the leg—don’t fight it.”
She did. Her head tipped back against the tub edge, eyes half-closed. His other hand supported her ankle, lifting her leg slightly so the calf floated free of the tub bottom. Water sloshed gently. Bubbles clung to his forearm, slid down his skin.
The cramp began to release—slowly, reluctantly. His thumbs kept working, kneading deeper, then lighter, smoothing the muscle back to softness. His touch was clinical at first—focused on relief—then something shifted. His palm flattened against her calf, sliding upward in long, soothing strokes. Up over the back of her knee, along the sensitive hollow, then down again.
Stephanie’s breathing changed—not from pain now.
She opened her eyes. Met his.
He didn’t stop.
His hand drifted higher—slow, deliberate—along the inside of her thigh. Bubbles parted around his wrist. Water rippled with each movement. She didn’t close her legs. Instead she shifted—barely—opening fractionally more.
Chris’s gaze darkened. “Tell me to stop.”
“Don’t stop,” she whispered.
His fingers traced higher—feather-light now—brushing the crease where thigh met hip. Then inward. The pad of his middle finger found her folds—already slick, not just from water. He circled her clit once—slow, teasing—then again. She gasped, hips lifting instinctively toward his hand.
He leaned closer, forearm braced on the tub edge, free hand cupping the back of her neck. Their foreheads touched.
“You’re beautiful,” he breathed against her mouth. “Every inch of you.”
She kissed him—wet, hungry, tasting salt and victory. His finger slipped inside her—slow, curling—then a second. He pumped gently while his thumb worked her clit in tight circles. Water sloshed with each movement, bubbles clinging to her breasts, sliding down her stomach.
She moaned into his mouth—low, broken. Her hands gripped his shoulders, nails digging in. He didn’t rush. He built her slowly—long strokes, gentle pressure, whispering against her lips: “Let go… I’ve got you… come for me, Steph…”
The orgasm hit like the finish line—sudden, shattering. She arched, cried out his name, walls pulsing around his fingers. He kept moving through it—slowing only when her tremors eased, then slipping free.
She sank back, boneless, chest heaving. Bubbles clung to her skin like tiny pearls.
Chris leaned in, kissed her forehead, then her mouth—soft now, tender.
“Better?” he asked.
She laughed weakly. “Much.”
The race was over.
But something else had just begun
Part 12.3: Under the Rain
The last tremor of her orgasm faded into the warm water, leaving Stephanie limp against the curved edge of the tub. Her limbs felt liquid, boneless. The calf cramp had retreated to a dull throb, but the exhaustion from three hours of fractured sleep, 21.1 kilometres of pavement, and now this shattering release had stolen every ounce of strength. She couldn’t even lift her arms to push herself up.
Chris saw it immediately.
“Easy,” he murmured, voice low and steady. “I’ve got you.”
He reached into the tub—both arms now—sliding one beneath her knees, the other around her shoulders. Bubbles clung to his forearms as he lifted her out in one smooth, careful motion. Water sliced off her body in sheets, bubbles sliding down the curves of her breasts, over the tight ridges of her abs, trailing between her thighs. She hung against his chest, naked and dripping, head resting on his shoulder, too spent to protest or cover herself.
He carried her the three steps to the rain shower. The large rainfall head was still set from earlier—wide, drenching, unforgiving. He reached past her with one hand and turned the knob.
The instant the water hit, it poured straight down in a warm, heavy cascade.
Chris was still fully clothed—black singlet plastered instantly to his torso, shorts darkening from waist to thigh. The fabric moulded to every ridge of muscle: broad pectorals, defined abs, the deep V-lines disappearing beneath the waistband. Water streamed over his shoulders, down his arms, dripping from his jaw. He didn’t flinch. He simply held her under the spray, letting it rinse the last of the lavender foam from her skin.
Stephanie lifted her head slowly. Through wet lashes she watched the bubbles dissolve and slide away—white trails gliding over the swell of her breasts, circling her hardened nipples, slipping down the flat plane of her stomach, collecting in the shallow dip of her navel before continuing lower. Rivulets traced the inner crease of her thighs, mingling with the slickness still lingering between her folds.
She looked up at him.
Chris’s singlet was transparent now—black cotton turned sheer, clinging to every contour of his chest like a second skin. His nipples stood dark and peaked beneath the fabric. Water ran in steady streams down his neck, over collarbones, tracing the lines of his pecs, dripping from the hem to pool at his waistband. The shorts were sodden, outlining the thick ridge of his erection—long, heavy, straining against the wet material.
Their eyes locked.
No words.
Stephanie lifted one trembling hand. Her fingers slid to the nape of his neck—wet hair curling under her palm. She pulled him down.
Their mouths met under the pouring rain.
It was not gentle.
It was starved.
Lips crashed, tongues sliding immediately—wet, messy, desperate. Water poured between their faces, into open mouths, down chins. She tasted salt and victory and him. He groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating against her tongue. His arms tightened, crushing her slick body to his soaked chest.
His hands roamed—first up her spine, fingers splaying wide over the small of her back, then lower. Palms cupped the firm, rounded globes of her ass. He kneaded—slow, possessive—thumbs digging into the crease where thigh met cheek, spreading her slightly with each squeeze. Stephanie moaned into his mouth, hips rocking forward instinctively, pressing her mound against the hard length trapped between them.
She broke the kiss long enough to tug at his singlet.
“Off,” she breathed against his lips.
Chris released her ass just long enough to yank the fabric over his head in one rough motion. It landed with a wet slap on the tile. His bare chest gleamed—tanned skin, water streaming over tight muscle, dark nipples tight from cold and arousal. She placed both palms flat against him—fingers tracing the ridges of his pecs, thumbs brushing over the small, hard peaks, then sliding down the centre line of his abs, following the deep V that disappeared into his shorts.
Her right hand dipped lower—bold, unhesitating—sliding beneath the elastic waistband. Her fingers wrapped around him.
He was scalding hot, thick, velvet-hard. The head was already slick with pre-cum, pulsing against her palm. She stroked once—slow, firm—from root to tip, feeling him jump in her grip.
Chris hissed through his teeth, forehead dropping to hers.
“Steph…”
She didn’t answer with words.
She reached for the body wash bottle on the ledge, squeezed a generous dollop into her palm, then returned to him. Her soapy hand closed around his shaft again—this time gliding easier, slicker. She pumped—long, deliberate strokes—thumb swirling over the swollen head on every upstroke, fingers tightening at the base on the down. The soap foamed between her fingers, white suds sliding down his length, dripping onto her wrist, mixing with the shower water.
All the while they kissed—deep, filthy kisses. Tongues sliding, teeth grazing lips, water pouring into their mouths. His hands returned to her breasts—cupping the small, firm mounds, thumbs rolling her nipples between them. He pinched lightly, tugged, then soothed with slow circles. Stephanie whimpered into his mouth, hips canting forward, rubbing her clit against the wet ridge of his thigh.
She felt him thicken further in her hand—veins standing out, head flaring. His breathing turned ragged against her lips.
He tried to bend—mouth seeking her breast, tongue already extended toward one tight nipple.
She stopped him—palm flat against his chest.
“No,” she whispered. “Not yet.”
Instead she pushed his shorts down with her free hand. The soaked fabric caught at mid-thigh—enough. His cock sprang free—thick, flushed dark, glistening with soap and pre-cum. She wrapped both hands around him now—one stroking the shaft in long, twisting pulls, the other cupping his heavy balls, rolling them gently.
Chris groaned—deep, guttural—hips jerking forward into her grip.
She pumped faster—tight, slick, relentless. Soap suds foamed between her fingers, sliding down his length in white rivulets. His head fell back, throat working, water streaming over his face.
“Steph—fuck—gonna—”
She didn’t slow.
He came hard—body locking, abs clenching, a low, broken groan tearing from his throat. Thick ropes of cum erupted across her lower stomach, her thighs, mixing with water and soap, sliding down her skin in pearly streaks. Pulse after pulse—hot, forceful—until he shuddered and stilled.
Silence followed.
Only the rain of the shower, their harsh breathing, the drip of water from his hair.
No words.
Stephanie released him slowly. Her hands trembled as she stepped back—legs still weak, heart hammering.
She turned, limped out of the shower without looking at him. Water streamed off her body, cum and soap mingling on her skin. She grabbed a towel from the rack, wrapped it around herself—tight, protective.
She didn’t speak.
She didn’t look back.
She walked out of the bathroom—naked beneath the towel, legs unsteady—leaving Chris standing under the spray, shorts tangled at mid-thigh, chest heaving, eyes dark and stunned.
The bathroom door clicked shut behind her.
She dressed in silence—dry clothes from the duffel, hair still dripping. The room was quiet except for the distant hum of the shower still running.
She grabbed her things.
She left.
Part 13: Silent Strides
The first week after the marathon blurred into a haze of normalcy that felt anything but normal.
For Stephanie, the days dragged in quiet torment. Mornings were the same: packing lunchboxes for Emma and Lucas, dropping them at school, then the familiar grind at the polyclinic—filing reports, answering calls, smiling at patients while her mind wandered to the 28th floor of the Ritz-Carlton. She could still feel the hot rain of the shower on her skin, Chris’s soapy hand stroking between her thighs, the thick heat of him pulsing in her palm as he came hard across her legs. The memory made her thighs clench involuntarily at her desk. She would bite her lip, stare at the computer screen until the guilt crashed in like a wave.
He’s not mine, she told herself every night as she lay beside Jude’s snoring form. I have a husband. Two children. A life built over twelve years. Yet the longing was a live wire under her skin. She missed the easy rhythm of their runs, the way Chris’s voice steadied her when cramps hit, the quiet pride in his eyes when she crossed the finish line. She opened WhatsApp a dozen times a day, thumb hovering over his name—Chris (Running)—then closed it. No contact. It’s safer this way. The club is off until January anyway. Distance is mercy.
She ran alone most evenings—short, cautious loops along the Punggol Waterway, never the full route they used to share. Each time she passed the curved LED bridge where they used to stretch, her chest tightened. She wore the same black sports bra and old FBT shorts—the comfortable, faded ones from before her transformation—because anything newer reminded her too much of how he had looked at her naked body in the tub, water and bubbles sliding over her breasts, his fingers curling inside her until she shattered.
Chris fared no better.
The first seven days felt like slow suffocation. He checked the Punggol Waterway Runners group chat obsessively, but it was silent except for the occasional “Merry Christmas early!” meme. No one was running. Everyone was off—family holidays, year-end leave, overseas trips. The club had officially paused until mid-January. He stared at Stephanie’s last message—the one from race morning: “See you at the start. Good luck tomorrow.” Nothing since.
Every night he lay in his Edgefield apartment, the same images replaying like a fever dream. Stephanie rising from the tub, water cascading off her petite, sculpted body—small breasts glistening, dark nipples tight, abs flexing as she stepped out. The way she had pulled him under the rain shower, her hand wrapping around his cock, soapy and relentless, stroking him until he exploded across her thighs. The desperate, wet kisses with water pouring into their mouths. The sudden silence when he came, and how she had fled without a word.
Did I cross the line? he asked himself while staring at the ceiling. I carried her. I touched her first in the tub. But she kissed me. She stroked me. She wanted it. The guilt gnawed at him—she was married, a mother—but the longing burned hotter. He missed her laugh on the path, the way her ponytail bounced when she picked up pace, the quiet “thank you” after he massaged her cramps. He opened her contact a hundred times. Typed “Hey, how’s recovery?” Deleted it. She ran away. She needs space. If I push, I lose her forever.
By the second week, the silence had become unbearable.
Chris laced up his shoes on a humid Wednesday evening, telling himself it was just to clear his head. The Punggol Waterway was quieter than usual—fewer families, more solo runners like him. He started slow, legs still heavy from the marathon recovery, but his mind refused to quiet. That shower… the way her hand twisted around me, thumb on the head, so tight, so perfect. The sound she made when she came in the tub—my name on her lips like a prayer. He picked up pace, trying to outrun the memory, sweat already soaking his grey singlet.
Halfway through his planned 8 km loop, near the water lily pond where they used to do their dynamic stretches, he saw her.
Stephanie was bent over in a hamstring stretch, one leg extended on the railing, the other planted firm. The same black sports bra hugged her small, perky breasts, the fabric slightly damp from the start of her warm-up. Her FBT shorts—short, red, the kind that rode up just enough to show the curve where thigh met ass—clung to her toned glutes and slim hips. Her abs were visible with every breath, the definition sharper than ever. Ponytail high, skin glowing under the evening lights.
Chris’s heart slammed against his ribs. God, she’s beautiful. Longing hit him like a physical blow—mixed with fear. What if she turns away? What if she regrets everything?
He forced himself to play it cool. Slowed to a jog, approached from behind with light footsteps.
“Hey,” he said, voice steady despite the storm inside.
She straightened, turned. Their eyes met. For a split second, something raw flashed across her face—surprise, heat, then guarded caution.
“Hi,” she replied, a small smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Long time no see.”
“Yeah.” He stopped beside her, hands on hips, breathing controlled. Inside, his thoughts raced: She looks tired. Is she thinking about the shower too? Does she hate me for not stopping her when she left? “How’s recovery? Legs still killing you?”
She shrugged, glancing away toward the water. “Better. Yours?”
“Same. Still dreaming about that last kilometre.” He tried for lightness. “Why the radio silence? Thought we’d at least check in after the race.”
Stephanie wiped sweat from her brow, avoiding his gaze. “The club’s off for the rest of the month, right? Everyone’s busy with year-end. I figured… just do a casual run by myself. Clear my head.”
The words stung. Chris’s chest tightened. She’s pulling away. Because of what we did. Because I touched her first. But he nodded. “Makes sense. Why didn’t you jio me though? We could’ve run together. Same route, no pressure.”
She hesitated, then met his eyes briefly. “I forgot. And… I wanted to run alone today. Sort some things out in my head.”
The unspoken hung heavy between them. Chris’s mind screamed: I remember every second. Your hand on my cock, soapy and perfect. The way you moaned my name. I want that again. But I know it’s wrong. You’re married. He swallowed the words.
“Fair enough,” he said instead. “Mind if I tag along for a bit? Just 30 minutes. Promise I won’t talk your ear off.”
She paused—long enough that his heart dropped—then nodded once. “Okay. 30 minutes.”
They started running side by side.
The first ten minutes were quiet except for their footfalls and breathing. Chris kept half a step behind, stealing glances. She’s limping a little on the right leg. Still sore? God, I want to kneel again, massage it, then slide my hands higher like last time. Stephanie’s thoughts were a whirlwind: He’s so close. I can smell his sweat, the same scent from the shower. My body remembers. But Jude… the kids… I can’t do this. It’s not right. Yet every time their arms brushed, electricity shot through her.
At the 15-minute mark, conversation trickled in—surface level, safe.
“Kids excited for Christmas?” he asked.
“Yeah. Emma wants a new bike. Lucas is all about dinosaurs.” She smiled faintly. Inside: Don’t ask about Jude. Don’t make this harder.
“Nice. My sister’s kids are the same.” Chris’s mind: I don’t care about Christmas. I care about the way your breasts looked covered in bubbles. The way you stroked me until I came on your thighs. I want to kiss you again, right here on the path.
They ran another ten minutes in near silence, pace steady, comfortable despite the tension. Stephanie felt the pull—the familiar sync of their strides, the safety of his presence. I missed this. I missed him. But it’s dangerous. One more touch and I’ll break. Chris fought the urge to reach for her hand. She’s pulling away at every turn. But she didn’t tell me to leave. That’s something.
At the T-junction ahead—the familiar fork where they always turned left into the scenic canal loop for the second half—Chris instinctively began to veer left.
Stephanie turned right.
She slowed to a walk, breathing hard. “This is me. Bye, Chris.”
He stopped, chest tight. “Already? We still have—”
“Yeah. I’m done for today.” Her voice was soft, almost regretful. Inside: If I keep going, I’ll ask him to come home with me. Or worse, go back to the hotel. I can’t. She forced a small smile. “Take care.”
She started jogging away—right turn, toward her block.
Chris stood frozen, watching her petite figure recede—black sports bra, red FBT shorts riding up with each step, ponytail swinging. The ache in his chest was worse than any cramp. She’s gone. Again. Because of me. Because I couldn’t keep my hands off her. He turned left alone, the canal path suddenly empty and endless.
Ten steps later, Stephanie glanced over her shoulder.
Chris was still standing there, watching her.
She lifted one hand in a small wave.
“See you again,” she called—voice carrying on the evening breeze, light but deliberate.
Not “goodbye.” Not “take care forever.”
See you again.
Chris’s heart lurched. A tiny spark of hope flared in the darkness of the past two weeks. He raised his hand in return, a slow smile breaking across his face.
“See you again,” he echoed, even though she was already turning forward.
She disappeared around the bend.
He stood there a moment longer, the waterway lights flickering on as dusk settled. The memories still replayed—her naked in the tub, her hand on him in the shower—but now they were joined by something new: her backward glance, her words carrying the faintest promise.
She wasn’t gone forever.
Just… not yet.
And for now, that glimpse of hope was enough to keep him running.
Part 14: The Quiet Return
January 2024 arrived like a reset button nobody had asked for. The Punggol Waterway Runners group chat flickered back to life mid-month—casual “Happy New Year” messages, a few recovery selfies, someone posting a photo of their Christmas ham. Stephanie liked a few posts, dropped a generic “Happy 2024 everyone!” and left it at that. No one pushed for runs yet; the festive hangover lingered, and most were still easing back into routines.
Life slid back into its familiar grooves—deceptively normal on the surface.
Stephanie returned to the polyclinic five days a week, the same fluorescent-lit corridors, the same queue of patients, the same polite smiles. She packed lunches, supervised homework, washed uniforms, kissed foreheads goodnight. Jude came home most evenings around 7:30, ate standing at the kitchen counter, helped Lucas with bath time if he wasn’t too drained, then collapsed on the sofa with his phone.
Their conversations were functional: “How was school?” “Any calls from your mum?” “Don’t forget Emma’s spelling test tomorrow.” Nothing more.
Their sex life remained exactly what it had been before the marathon—emotionless, passionless, mechanical. Jude initiated roughly once every ten days, usually late at night after scrolling long enough to get hard. Lights off. Condom from the drawer. Her shorts tugged down. A few efficient thrusts, his low grunt, then sleep. Stephanie lay still beneath him, eyes open in the dark, counting the rotations of the ceiling fan until it was over. She never came. She never initiated. The memory of the hotel shower—Chris’s fingers curling inside her, the way her body had shattered under his touch—made her clench every time Jude rolled toward her. Guilt followed immediately, hot and suffocating. I can’t do that again. I won’t.
Jude tried, in his own limited way, to rekindle something. One Saturday morning in early January he brought her kaya toast from the coffee shop downstairs, set it on the table with a small smile. “Thought you’d like this.” She thanked him, ate it slowly, felt a flicker of warmth. That evening he pulled her onto the sofa during the kids’ cartoon time, kissed her neck softly, whispered, “Missed you.” They made love that night—still mechanical, but he kissed her longer, touched her breasts with something approaching tenderness. She closed her eyes and tried to feel it. The next morning he was back to his phone at breakfast, grunting responses, leaving dishes in the sink. The flicker died as quickly as it had come.
Then came the work restructuring.
Jude announced it over dinner one Tuesday in late January—casual, almost proud.
“Boss offered me the new ASEAN market portfolio. Means weekends—Saturday and Sunday in the office or client calls. But I get three weekdays off as compensation, plus a pay bump. Good deal lah. I took it.”
Stephanie’s fork paused halfway to her mouth.
“You… took it? Without talking to me?”
He shrugged. “It’s a promotion track. More money for the kids’ education fund. Thought you’d be happy.”
She stared at him. “Weekends I’ll be alone with both kids. Every weekend. No break. No help.”
“You manage fine when I’m at work late,” he said, frowning. “And you have your mum. Or the helper on Saturdays.”
The helper came only half-day Saturday. Her mum was in Hougang, an hour away by MRT with two young children. Stephanie felt the walls of her life shrink another inch.
She didn’t argue. What was the point? He had already accepted. She nodded once, said “Okay,” and cleared the plates in silence. Inside, resentment simmered—not explosive, but steady. He didn’t even ask. Just decided. Like my time, my energy, my weekends don’t matter.
The WhatsApp thread with Chris had stayed quiet since their brief run-in on the waterway in December. A few polite “Happy New Year” exchanges in early January, then nothing. She told herself it was better this way. Distance kept temptation at bay. Yet every time she passed the T-junction where she had turned right and left him standing there, her stomach twisted with longing—and fear.
One Thursday evening in mid-February, after putting the kids to bed, she opened the chat for no reason at all.
Chris’s last message still sat there: “See you again” — her own words echoed back from that December night.
She typed, deleted, typed again.
Stephanie: Hey. How’s the new year treating you?
His reply came within minutes.
Chris: Surviving lah. Work busy. You?
Stephanie: Same. Kids back to school. Everything… normal.
They chatted like that for a week—light, surface-level, safe. Work complaints (her endless patient queues, his latest client meltdown). Weekend plans (her solo grocery runs, his Netflix binge). Recent activities (she mentioned a new recipe she tried, he shared a photo of his failed attempt at bak kut teh). Nothing personal. No mention of the hotel. No reference to the shower. No “I miss running with you.” No “I think about you every day.”
But the undercurrent was there.
For Stephanie, every message felt like stepping onto thin ice. If I say too much, he’ll know I still want him. If I say nothing, he’ll think I regret everything. She reread their old chats sometimes—innocent running banter from before the marathon—and felt a pang. We were happy then. Just friends. Why did I ruin it? Yet the thought of his hands on her in the tub, his cock in her soapy grip, his groan as he came on her thighs… it made her wet even now, alone in the bathroom, fingers slipping between her legs while Jude slept. She came quickly, quietly, hating herself afterward.
Chris felt the same tightrope.
Every time her name appeared on his screen, his pulse jumped. She’s talking to me again. That means something. He replayed the shower scene obsessively—her small hand wrapped around him, stroking with perfect pressure, the way her breasts bounced slightly under the rain as she jerked him off, the hot splash of his release on her thighs. He wanted to ask: Do you think about it too? Do you regret running away? But he didn’t. She’s married. She has kids. One wrong word and she disappears for good. So he kept it light. Safe. Aching.
One Sunday afternoon in late February, after a long morning of solo parenting—Emma’s tantrum over mismatched socks, Lucas refusing to nap—Stephanie sat on the sofa, exhausted. Jude was at the office (his new normal). The flat was quiet except for the hum of the air-con.
Her phone buzzed.
Chris: Weekend run? Or you still taking it easy?
She stared at the message. Heart rate climbing.
Stephanie: Haven’t run weekends in a while. Jude’s new work schedule means he’s gone Sat-Sun now. I’m on full kid duty. No time.
A pause. Three dots.
Chris: That’s rough. Every weekend?
Stephanie: Yeah. New portfolio. More money, but… yeah.
Chris: If you ever want company on a weekday morning or evening when he’s off, let me know. No pressure. Just saying.
She read it twice. Three times.
The offer was innocent on the surface. A running buddy. Nothing more.
But she knew what it really was.
An opening.
A chance to step back onto the path they used to share—side by side, strides synced, conversation easy.
A chance to feel seen again.
Wanted.
Alive.
Her thumbs hovered.
Inner voice screaming:
Don’t.
You know what happens when you’re alone with him.
The shower. The way you came apart under his fingers.
Jude is trying—in his way. The kids need stability.
You can’t risk everything for a feeling.
But another voice—quieter, hungrier—whispered:
You’re drowning.
Weekends alone with the kids, no break, no help.
Jude doesn’t see you. Not really.
Chris does.
He stayed with you at 18 km when he could have gone ahead.
He massaged your cramps, carried you to the shower, made you come so hard you forgot your own name.
He’s offering to run. Just run.
What’s the harm in saying yes?
She typed slowly.
Stephanie: Maybe. I’ll think about it.
Chris: No rush. Door’s open whenever you want.
She set the phone down, heart pounding.
She didn’t reply again that day.
But she didn’t delete the message either.
The hesitation sat in her chest like a stone—heavy, unmoving, yet impossible to ignore.
She wanted to say yes.
She was terrified to say yes.
And somewhere in between those two truths, she knew the next time she laced up her shoes on a quiet weekday morning, she might not be running
Part 15: Saturday Afternoons and Unexpected Coffee
January 2024 settled into a predictable rhythm for Stephanie—one that felt both comforting and quietly suffocating.
Weekends had become a solo mission. Jude left the house by 8 a.m. on Saturdays and Sundays, briefcase in hand, off to the office or client calls in his new ASEAN portfolio role. The pay bump had arrived in the first paycheck—nice numbers on the bank app—but the trade-off was immediate and total: she was now a single parent from Friday night until Monday morning. Emma and Lucas had their weekend enrichment classes at Waterway Point—ballet for Emma, taekwondo for Lucas—both running from 2 p.m. to 5 p.m. on Saturdays.
Stephanie’s routine was clockwork.
Drop the kids at 1:50 p.m. (just before the 2 p.m. start), walk to the mall, order a tall Americano (black, no sugar), claim the corner table by the window overlooking the canal, and settle in. Three hours. Phone in hand. Death scrolling. Instagram reels of perfect families on holiday, TikTok cooking hacks she’d never try, X threads about everything and nothing. Occasionally she’d reply to a group chat message or like a friend’s post, but mostly she just stared—numb, detached, waiting for the clock to hit 5 p.m. so she could collect the kids, head home, cook dinner, bathe them, and collapse.
It wasn’t living. It was surviving.
That particular Saturday—January 17th, a bright, breezy afternoon—she was midway through her third hour. The Americano had gone cold. She was deep in a rabbit hole of “minimalist home organization” videos when the café door chimed.
She glanced up out of habit.
Chris walked in.
Black polo, slim-fit jeans, sunglasses hooked on his collar. He looked relaxed, freshly showered, carrying the easy confidence of someone who’d just finished a light gym session. He scanned the counter for the menu board, then his eyes swept the room—and landed on her.
For a split second, time stuttered.
Their gazes locked.
Stephanie’s heart gave a traitorously hard thump.
Chris’s mouth curved into a slow, surprised smile. He lifted a hand in a small wave, then pointed at the counter as if to say one second. He ordered—a large iced latte to go—paid, and turned straight toward her table.
“Such a coincidence,” he said as he reached her, voice warm and lightly teasing. “Or maybe the universe is trying to tell us something.”
Stephanie laughed—genuine, surprised, the sound startling even herself after weeks of quiet weekends. “Or maybe you just like overpriced coffee.”
“Guilty.” He pulled out the chair opposite her without asking. “Mind if I join? Or are you in the middle of important scrolling?”
She gestured at the empty seat. “All yours. The algorithm was about to recommend me another $500 vacuum cleaner I don’t need.”
He sat, setting his cup down. “Dangerous territory. Next thing you know you’re buying a robot mop and naming it.”
She snorted. “I’d name it Jude. It can clean while he’s at work.”
The joke slipped out—light, but edged. Chris caught it, eyebrows lifting slightly, but he didn’t push. Instead he leaned back, casual.
“So… you come here every Saturday?”
“Pretty much.” She shrugged, stirring the cold dregs of her Americano. “Kids have classes from 2 to 5. I drop them at 1:50, grab coffee, and… exist here for three hours. Glamorous life.”
Chris tilted his head. “Three hours? Every week?”
“Yup. My big Saturday adventure.” She gave a self-deprecating smile. “I know. Pathetic.”
“Not pathetic,” he said quietly. “Lonely, maybe. But not pathetic.”
She looked down at her cup, the playful tone faltering for a second. Then she rallied, forcing lightness back into her voice.
“Anyway, what about you? What brings you to Waterway Point on a Saturday afternoon? Stalking single mums in Starbucks?”
He laughed—low, easy. “Close. I live here.”
Her eyes widened. “Here? Like… the mall?”
“Above it.” He jerked his thumb toward the ceiling. “The condo block right on top. Penthouse unit. Two bedrooms. Got it after the divorce. Focused on work, made some decent investment calls, and… yeah. Here I am.”
Stephanie blinked. “You live in a penthouse. Above Waterway Point. And you never mentioned it?”
He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. “Never came up? And honestly, I didn’t want to sound like I was bragging. ‘Hey, fancy seeing you here, by the way I live upstairs in the sky.’”
She laughed again—brighter this time. “A penthouse. Wah. I’ve never even stepped inside a condo before. HDB life only.”
“Want a tour?” he asked, half-joking, half-serious. “I’ve got a ridiculous view of the canal. And a bathtub bigger than your kitchen.”
Her smile froze for a heartbeat.
The image flashed—unbidden, vivid: the Ritz bathtub, bubbles, his hands on her thighs, her hand on him under the rain shower. Heat bloomed low in her belly. She pushed it down hard.
“No thanks,” she said quickly, but her voice wasn’t as firm as she wanted. “I’m not taking any risks today.”
Chris nodded immediately—no push, no disappointment on his face. “Fair. Offer’s open though. Anytime. No strings. Just a view and maybe some decent kopi from my machine.”
She rolled her eyes, playful again. “You have a kopi machine in your penthouse? Of course you do.”
“Bean-to-cup. Life-changing.”
“You’re showing off now.”
“Only a little.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table, grin boyish. “But seriously… three hours here every Saturday? That’s rough. You deserve better than death-scrolling.”
She sighed, the lightness fading a fraction. “It is what it is. Jude’s new schedule means weekends are mine now. All mine. Lucky me.”
Chris’s expression softened. “He didn’t ask you first?”
“Nope. Just took the deal. More money, more hours, more weekends alone.” She shrugged, trying to play it off. “Good for the bank account, I guess.”
He studied her for a moment—quiet, thoughtful. Then, gently: “If you ever want company on a Saturday… even just to grab coffee somewhere else, or walk the canal, or… I don’t know, sit in my stupid penthouse and stare at the view while complaining about life… the offer stands. No pressure. No expectations.”
Stephanie looked at him—really looked.
The café noise faded around them.
Part 16 - The Pull
His eyes were steady, warm, without demand. She felt the pull again—that quiet, dangerous gravity that had started on the waterway path months ago.
She wanted to say yes.
Wanted to follow him upstairs, see the view, sit on a couch that wasn’t covered in kid crumbs, drink real coffee, talk without watching the clock.
Wanted to feel seen.
But the fear was louder.
One step inside his place and everything changes again.
The shower. The way I touched him. The way he touched me.
I almost lost control once. I can’t risk it twice.
She swallowed. Forced a small, teasing smile.
“I’ll… consider it.”
His eyebrows lifted—surprised, hopeful.
“Consider,” he repeated slowly, grin spreading. “That’s not a no.”
“It’s not a yes either,” she shot back, playful again. “Don’t get cocky, penthouse boy.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He raised his iced latte in mock salute. “But when you’re ready to upgrade from Starbucks death-scrolling… you know where to find me. Two floors up. Door code’s easy—my unit number backwards.”
She laughed—real, light, the sound startling her again.
“Unit number backwards. Very high security.”
“Only the best.”
They sat for another twenty minutes—light banter, no heavy topics. She told him about Lucas’s latest dinosaur obsession; he told her about his failed attempt to grow basil on his balcony. Safe. Easy. Playful.
When her phone alarm buzzed at 4:55 p.m., she sighed.
“Time to collect the monsters.”
Chris stood with her. “I’ll walk you to the lift.”
They left the café together—shoulders almost brushing, steps in sync like old running days. At the escalator to the carpark level, she turned.
“Thanks for the company,” she said softly. “It… made the three hours pass faster.”
“Anytime.” He smiled—small, genuine. “And I meant it. Offer’s open. No expiry date.”
She nodded once—hesitant, but not dismissive.
“See you around, Chris.”
“See you around, Steph.”
She walked away—toward the kids’ pickup point, heart lighter than it had been in weeks, yet heavier with the weight of what she hadn’t said.
Maybe.
One word.
But it felt like the biggest risk she’d taken since that night in the hotel.
And somewhere deep inside, a small, reckless part of her hoped he’d keep the door open just a little longer.
Part 17: Coincidences and $30 Escapes
Over the next few weeks, the Saturday afternoon Starbucks corner table became something of a ritual neither of them acknowledged out loud.
Every Saturday at 2:05 p.m.—give or take five minutes—Chris would stroll through the glass doors, order his large iced latte, glance casually around the café as if he were just another mall wanderer, and then “miraculously” spot Stephanie in her usual seat. She’d look up from her phone, eyebrows already rising in mock suspicion, and he’d grin like a boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
“Again?” she said on the third Saturday in a row, voice dripping with playful accusation. “You’re stalking me, aren’t you?”
Chris raised both hands in surrender, latte balanced in one. “Pure coincidence. I swear on my bean-to-cup machine upstairs. The universe clearly wants us to share overpriced caffeine.”
She snorted, pushing the chair opposite her out with her foot. “Sit before someone thinks you’re harassing innocent coffee-scrollers.”
He sat. They fell into easy chatter—nothing deep, nothing dangerous. Work gripes (her endless patient queues, his latest client meltdown over a delayed server migration). Kid stories (Lucas’s new obsession with drawing volcanoes, Emma’s ballet teacher praising her turnout). Weekend complaints (her solo parenting marathons, his failed attempt to meal-prep chicken rice that turned into sad chicken soup). The Ritz-Carlton night hovered somewhere unspoken between them—like a song they both knew the words to but refused to sing. Neither mentioned the shower. Neither mentioned the way her hand had felt around him, or the sounds she’d made when his fingers curled inside her. They just… talked. Laughed. Let the hours slip by until her 4:55 alarm buzzed.
It was safe. Comfortable. And dangerously addictive.
In late January, Waterway Point unveiled its newest attraction: The Jade Harmony Spa. Floor-to-ceiling banners everywhere—silk-robed models lounging in candlelit rooms, promises of “ancient Thai techniques meets modern luxury.” Grand opening fanfare included a lion dance in the atrium, free pandan waffles for the first hundred visitors, and the headline offer plastered on every poster: $30 for 2 hours non-peak access (2–6 p.m. weekdays & weekends). Even the aunties at the wet market were talking about it.
That particular Saturday—January 31st—Stephanie and Chris met at Starbucks as usual. She was in her weekend uniform: loose T-shirt over sports bra, FBT shorts, hair in a messy bun. He wore a fitted grey henley and joggers, looking annoyingly put-together after what he claimed was a “light recovery jog.”
They ordered, settled in, traded the usual banter.
Halfway through her second Americano, Chris tilted his head toward the mall directory on his phone.
“You seen the new spa everyone’s raving about? Jade something. $30 for two hours. Sounds almost too good.”
Stephanie shot him a look—half amused, half wary. “And what exactly are you expecting from a spa, Mr. Penthouse? Some special kind of… treatment?”
Chris laughed—loud enough that the table next to them glanced over. “Oi. I meant actual relaxation. My thighs are still screaming from Tuesday’s tempo run. Yours aren’t?”
She shifted in her seat, wincing slightly. “Okay, fine. They’re sore. But I’m not going to some fancy spa with you. That’s… asking for trouble.”
“It’s literally in the mall,” he countered, grin widening. “Public place. Fully clothed—well, mostly. Foot massage section is separate for men and women anyway. Come on. $30. Two hours of peace. When’s the last time you did something just for you?”
She chewed her lip. The café suddenly felt too small, his eyes too steady. It’s just a spa. Public. Safe. No hotel rooms. No showers. No risks. Yet the memory flickered anyway—his hands on her calves in the tub, sliding higher, her body opening under his touch. She pushed it down.
“I have to pick up the kids at 5,” she hedged.
“We’ll be done by 4:30. Plenty of time.”
She looked at him—really looked. No smirk. No hidden agenda in his expression. Just… an offer. A friend offering company on a lonely Saturday.
She sighed dramatically. “Fine. But if they try to upsell me on some jade-infused facial or whatever, I’m blaming you.”
“Deal.” He stood, already grabbing both their cups. “Let’s go before you change your mind.”
The spa entrance was impossible to miss—double doors framed in dark wood and gold accents, soft flute music drifting out, a waterfall wall visible through the glass. The launch crowd had thinned by mid-afternoon; only a handful of aunties and office workers milled around the reception. A smiling staff member in a silk uniform greeted them.
“Welcome to Jade Harmony! First time? Our non-peak special is $30 for two hours—full facilities except private suites. Foot reflexology, hot stone loungers, aromatherapy steam room, and our signature herbal tea lounge.”
Stephanie blinked. “That’s… it? $30?”
“Until 6 p.m. Yes ma’am. After 9 p.m. is peak—dinner crowd, couples mostly. But afternoons are quiet. We even have a senior citizen package—$20 for 10 a.m. to 12 noon.”
Chris glanced at Stephanie. “Told you. Steal.”
They paid separately (she insisted), received locker keys and soft cotton shorts-and-tank sets, and split to the changing rooms. Five minutes later they met in the common lounge area—both in the spa-issued outfits, hair tied back, looking slightly ridiculous and oddly comfortable.
“Ready for heaven?” Chris asked, waggling his eyebrows.
“Ready for you to stop talking like a bad advertisement,” she shot back.
The foot reflexology zone was a dimly lit cinema-style room: plush recliners in pairs, foot baths already steaming with lemongrass and ginger, giant screen playing old-school Mission Impossible on low volume. Two middle-aged Thai masseuses greeted them with warm smiles and hot towels.
Stephanie sank into her chair with a sigh that bordered on obscene. “Okay. You win. This is heaven.”
Chris settled beside her, feet already in the warm soak. “Told you.”
The aunty assigned to Stephanie—round-faced, strong hands—started on her calves first. Thumbs dug in, rolling out knots with ruthless precision. Pain flared, then melted into liquid relief. Stephanie’s eyes fluttered closed.
Beside her, Chris let out a low groan as his masseuse worked his quads. “I take back every bad thing I ever said about foot massages.”
Stephanie cracked one eye open. “You’ve said bad things about foot massages?”
“Before today? Yes. Now? I want to marry this woman.”
The aunty laughed softly. “You come back, I give you special price.”
They watched Tom Cruise dangle from a wire in near silence, only occasional murmurs of “Wah, shiok” or “There—right there” when a knot gave way. For ninety blissful minutes, the world shrank to warm water, skilled hands, and the low thump of 90s action music.
When the session ended, they limped—happily—into the lounge area. A small buffet waited: sliced dragonfruit, pineapple, papaya, pomelo, and chilled barley tea. Nothing fancy, but after the massage it tasted like ambrosia.
They claimed two armchairs by the window overlooking the canal. Stephanie stretched her legs out, toes flexing.
“I might never leave,” she sighed.
Chris sipped his tea. “We could make this a thing. $30 Saturdays. Cheaper than therapy.”
She laughed. “Don’t tempt me.”
The staff member who’d checked them in approached with a tablet. “Sir, madam—first time package includes one-time offer: upgrade to VIP membership for $188/year. Includes priority booking, free upgrade to private suite once a month, 20% off add-ons. And you can share the membership if you bring a friend.”
Chris glanced at Stephanie. “Tempting?”
She hesitated—playful suspicion back in her eyes. “Are you trying to bribe me into more spa dates?”
“Only if it works.”
She rolled her eyes, but the smile stayed. “I’ll… think about it.”
The staff member smiled. “Take your time. Offer valid for 30 days.”
When the woman walked away, Chris leaned closer, voice low and teasing. “You said ‘think about it’ again. That’s twice now. I’m starting to believe you mean it.”
Stephanie met his gaze—light, but with something deeper flickering underneath.
“Maybe I do,” she said softly. “Maybe next time… we try the steam room. Or the hot stone beds.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Careful. That almost sounded like a yes.”
She stood, stretching, the spa shorts riding up just enough to show the curve of her thigh. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, penthouse boy. I said maybe.”
He laughed—quiet, warm, delighted.
They walked out together at 4:40 p.m., bodies loose, minds quiet, the $30 feeling like the best money either of them had spent in months.
At the lift to the carpark, she turned.
“See you next Saturday?” she asked—casual, but her eyes held his a second longer than necessary.
Chris smiled—slow, knowing.
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
She stepped into the lift. The doors closed.
But the small, reckless smile on her face as she descended told a different story.
The door wasn’t just cracked anymore.
It was slowly swinging open.
Part 18: Steam, Songs, and Private Pools
February slipped into March, and the $30 Saturday ritual quietly became a fixture neither of them questioned anymore.
After that first foot-massage afternoon at Jade Harmony Spa, they returned the following weekend—same time, same corner table at Starbucks, same “coincidental” meeting that fooled no one. The banter stayed light, playful, deliberately surface-level. No Ritz memories resurfaced in conversation. No lingering looks that lasted too long. Just two friends stealing three hours of peace in a mall spa while the rest of the world spun on.
They explored methodically, like kids discovering a new playground.
Second visit: back massage. Separate rooms, of course. Stephanie emerged ninety minutes later loose-limbed and slightly dazed, muttering, “I think my spine just forgave me for twelve years of bad posture.” Chris, rubbing his shoulder, grinned and said, “Mine just proposed to the masseuse.”
Third visit: hydrotherapy. Gender-separated jet pools and underwater treadmills. Stephanie floated in the warm bubbling current, eyes closed, letting the jets pound her sore quads while she tried very hard not to think about how good Chris’s hands had felt on those same muscles months ago. When they met again in the lounge, she teased, “You look like a boiled prawn.” He shot back, “And you look like someone who finally relaxed. Miracles do happen.”
Fourth visit: steam room. Thick eucalyptus clouds, cedar benches, total silence except for the hiss of steam. They sat on opposite sides—towels wrapped tight, eyes closed—letting the heat melt the last remnants of the week. Afterward, over chilled barley tea, Stephanie sighed happily. “I’m ruined. I’ll never survive normal life again.”
Chris chuckled. “Welcome to the dark side. $30 at a time.”
That same afternoon, as they lounged with sliced dragonfruit and pomelo, the same staff member approached—tablet in hand, smile professional but eager.
“Sir, madam—congratulations on being our loyal non-peak visitors. We’re offering the VIP upgrade again: $188 for the year. Unlimited VIP room access, priority booking, 20% off add-ons… and full use of our couples facilities: private massage suites, hot-and-cold plunge pools, even a karaoke room.”
Stephanie’s head snapped up at “karaoke.”
“Karaoke?” she repeated, eyes lighting like a child spotting cake.
The staff nodded. “Yes ma’am. Private room, full song library—English, Mandarin, Cantopop, K-pop. Very popular with couples in the evening, but afternoons are quiet.”
Stephanie turned to Chris, grin wide and mischievous. “We’re doing it.”
Chris blinked. “We are?”
“Yes. Right now. I haven’t sung in years. Come on—$188 is nothing compared to therapy bills.”
He laughed—helpless, delighted—and pulled out his card. “Fine. But if you sing off-key, I’m leaving.”
They upgraded on the spot.
The staff led them to the VIP wing—a quieter corridor, mood lighting, faint scent of sandalwood. The karaoke room was small but luxurious: two plush sofas, a low table with complimentary fruit and chilled water, a large screen, two wireless mics. No windows. No one else around at 3:30 p.m.
Stephanie grabbed a mic the second the door closed.
“Prepare to be amazed,” she declared, scrolling the song list with the seriousness of a general planning battle.
Chris sank onto the sofa, arms crossed, already grinning. “I’m ready for the concert of the century.”
She picked an old Cantopop classic—Faye Wong’s “Dreams”—and the opening chords filled the room. Her voice started soft, tentative… then grew. Clear, surprisingly strong, carrying the melody with a warmth that made the small space feel intimate. She swayed slightly, eyes half-closed, lost in the song.
Chris watched her—quiet, smiling, completely captivated. Not mocking. Not judging. Just… enjoying her. When she hit the chorus—voice lifting, confident, joyful—he found himself humming along under his breath.
She finished to silence, then burst out laughing. “Okay, your turn.”
He shook his head. “Nope. I’m the audience. You’re the star.”
She pouted playfully. “Coward.”
“Guilty.”
She sang two more—Leslie Cheung’s “Wind Continues to Blow,” then a cheeky K-pop number just to make him laugh. He clapped after each one, whooping dramatically on the last. By the time they left at 4:40, her cheeks were flushed, voice slightly hoarse, and both of them were grinning like teenagers who’d gotten away with something.
The next Sunday, Stephanie went alone—with two girlfriends this time. The kids were at her parents’ place for the day. She, Mei, and Lina booked the 2 p.m. slot, giggling through foot soaks and steam, gossiping about work and husbands. No Chris. No tension. Just harmless fun. But when the staff mentioned the VIP karaoke room again, Stephanie felt a tiny pang. She didn’t book it. Didn’t mention it. But the thought lingered.
The following Saturday—February 7th—they met at Starbucks as usual. Both were limping slightly after a brutal 15 km long run with HIIT intervals thrown in mid-week. Thighs burned, calves tight.
Chris winced as he sat. “I think my legs are staging a protest.”
Stephanie laughed, rubbing her own quad. “Same. I nearly cried walking up the escalator.”
He glanced toward the spa entrance across the atrium. “Hot-and-cold pool? Staff said it’s magic for muscle recovery.”
She hesitated—only for a second. “Okay. But if it’s crowded again…”
It was worse than crowded.
The hot pool in the women’s hydrotherapy area had twenty aunties—chatting loudly, floating arm bands, kids splashing in the shallow end despite the “no children under 12” sign. Every corner occupied, steam thick with gossip and tiger balm scent.
Stephanie walked out after two minutes, dripping and annoyed. “Nope. It’s like a family reunion in there.”
Chris emerged from the men’s side looking equally defeated. “Worse on my side. Thirty uncles debating stock market and football. Standing room only.”
The staff member—same one as before—approached, apologetic. “So sorry. Capacity is 30 per pool, but today… everyone came early. But—good news—one VIP booking cancelled last minute. Private hot-and-cold plunge suite available now. Full facilities: two massage tables, ensuite bathroom, private pools. No extra charge with your VIP membership.”
Stephanie froze.
Chris looked at her—calm, reassuring. “It’s just recovery. Separate tables. Professional massage. No funny business.”
Her mind flashed anyway: Ritz-Carlton. Bathtub. Rain shower. His fingers inside her. Her hand on him. The way they’d kissed under the water like they were drowning in each other.
She swallowed hard.
It’s public. Staff will be there. Massage only. Safe.
But the memory burned.
Chris’s voice softened. “We can skip it. Go back to Starbucks. Or just walk the canal.”
She looked at him—his steady eyes, no pressure, no smirk. Just concern.
She exhaled.
“Okay,” she said quietly. “Let’s do it.”
The staff member led them down the VIP corridor to a large, dimly lit suite. Two padded massage tables side by side. A glass-partitioned area with a deep hot pool (38°C) and a cold plunge (15°C) shimmering under soft blue lights. Ensuite bathroom with rain shower and deep soaking tub. Scent of eucalyptus and sandalwood.
Stephanie’s stomach flipped.
Same layout. Same view of water. Same temptation.
But she squared her shoulders. “Massage only. Right?”
“Right,” Chris said immediately. “Legs and back. Nothing else.”
The therapist entered—professional, middle-aged, clipboard in hand. “Welcome. Full-body or targeted? We recommend 60-minute deep-tissue for post-run recovery.”
“Targeted,” they said in unison. “Legs and thighs.”
They lay face-down on separate tables, towels draped modestly over hips. The therapist worked in silence—thumbs digging into quads, rolling out IT bands, pressing deep into calves. Pain flared, then dissolved into relief. Stephanie closed her eyes, breathing through it, trying not to think about how close Chris was—only two metres away, shirtless on his table, skin oiled and gleaming under the low lights.
When the hour ended, the therapist left them to shower and change.
Silence settled.
Stephanie sat up first, towel clutched to her chest. “That… helped. A lot.”
Chris turned his head, still lying prone. “Same. Legs feel human again.”
She glanced at the hot pool—empty, steaming, inviting. Then at the cold plunge beside it. Then at him.
He met her gaze. No words. Just a quiet question in his eyes.
She stood—towel still wrapped tight. Walked to the hot pool’s edge. Dipped a toe in.
Warm. Perfect.
She looked back at him.
“Coming?” she asked—voice light, but her pulse wasn’t.
Chris rose slowly. “Only if you promise not to drown me when the memories hit.”
She laughed—shaky, but real. “No promises.”
They stepped in—separately—hot water enveloping calves, thighs, hips. Steam rose between them. No touching. No kissing. Just two people soaking sore muscles in silence, the Ritz night hanging in the air like mist.
Stephanie closed her eyes.
Safe. Professional. Just recovery.
But the small, reckless part of her—the one that had said “maybe” weeks ago—whispered:
For now.