Hooked On A Feeling

I grip the steering wheel so tightly that my knuckles are white against the black leather. Is that little clacking sound the car makes normal? Maybe it’s just me, hyper-aware of everything right now. 

Because of Brandon. 

He sits beside me in the passenger seat, calm as ever, his right leg stretched out comfortably. The left one is a prosthetic, not that anybody could tell underneath his jeans. His hooks, much more obvious than his missing leg, glint in the corner of my eye, one idly tapping against the other in a steady rhythm to the radio. 

“It’s accessible,” I say again, glancing at him quickly before returning my eyes to the road. “I checked, like, three times. I called them, went through their website, even cross-referenced reviews. They’ve got ramps, an elevator, even grab bars in the shower.”

Brandon leans his head back against the seat, a faint smile tugging at his lips. He’s so handsome. My stomach churns. 

“You know, Jen, you don’t have to go through all this trouble. I’ve stayed in places that weren’t exactly...perfectly accessible, and I managed just fine.”

“That’s not the point,” I say, trying to keep my tone light but feeling the heat rise in my chest. “It’s supposed to be perfect. This is your first trip with me. Our first trip. I don’t want you worrying about managing.  I want you to participate in everything the spa has to offer.”

He chuckles softly. It’s so easy for him. That’s part of what I love about Brandon—he’s grounded in a way I don’t quite know how to be. He shifts slightly, his myoelectric left leg whirring faintly as the sensors adjust. He doesn’t seem to notice the sound anymore, but I always do. It reminds me of all the things I have to remember—things I don’t want to mess up.

“Relax,” he says, his voice warm but firm. “This trip isn’t about proving anything. I’m already with you, remember?”

I swallow hard, my fingers easing their death grip on the wheel. “I know. I just want it to be special.”

“It already is,” he says, his voice softer now. “You’re driving. I’m relaxing. And you’ve put way more thought into this than anyone else ever has.”

My cheeks flush, and I let myself glance at him again. He’s looking at me now, his hazel eyes full of unshakable calm. The hooks resting on his thighs gleam faintly in the sunlight. I know he’s not self-conscious about them, and he’s told me I don’t need to tiptoe around them either. Still, I can’t help myself. The sight of them makes my stomach tighten, a flash of heat that I force down with every ounce of willpower I have.

I can’t let it show. Not now. Not ever.

I bite the inside of my lower lip, hard, trying to focus on anything else. The trees flashing by the window. The weird clacking sound the car makes. The fact that this man—this beautiful, funny, kind man—is sitting beside me because he chose me.

I still can’t believe it sometimes. That day at the party, when he asked me out, I thought I’d misheard him. Thought it must’ve been some kind of mistake.

Brandon is so sexy it hurts. And I’m… that. He doesn’t know. He can’t know.

It’s not that I don’t care about him—I do. God, I do. More than I’ve ever cared about anyone in my life. That’s why I’m trying so hard to be...better. To focus on him, on who he is, not the fact that his prosthetics, or the stumps hidden under his clothes, make my heart race in a way I can’t control.

“Hey,” Brandon says suddenly, pulling me out of my spiraling thoughts. “You’re really in your head today. You sure you’re okay?”

I nod quickly, too quickly. “Yeah. Sorry. Just...thinking about the trip.”

He doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t push it either. “Well, stop stressing. It’s just a spa, Jen. No big deal.”

I swallow hard, forcing a smile. “Right. No big deal.”

But it is a big deal. Because this is the first time we’ll be alone like this, for a whole weekend. We’ve been dating for three months and have yet to go further than making out in the backseats of a cinema. This weekend will be it. My first time with an amputee. Our first time. 

And I have to keep it together. I can’t let him see the other part of me. 

The car rumbles to a stop in front of the spa, gravel crunching under the tires. I pull the parking brake and exhale slowly, trying to untangle the knot of nerves in my stomach. Brandon stretches in his seat, the faint whir of his myoelectric leg cutting through the quiet. I know he’s probably stiff after the drive, and I bite my lip, focusing on the dashboard instead of glancing his way.

“Finally,” he says, his voice warm, his easy humor that always makes me ache a little inside. I turn my head away, hurry to get out of the car, so I don’t have to watch as he turns and fumbles the door open with his hooks. I keep my eyes on my hands, wrestling with the keys and my bag, pretending I don’t notice the fluidity of his movements, the way he’s made everything second nature.

By the time I round the car, he’s already stretching, his arms reaching toward the sky. His t-shirt rides up a little, showing his hard abs, and I force myself to look away, locking the car with a sharp beep.

“Man, that was a long drive,” he says, grinning at me. “But hey, at least you’re a great driver. I’m impressed.”

I blush, trying to match his lightheartedness, even though my chest feels tight. “Thanks. Let’s hope the spa’s as good as their website made it sound.”

The building is charming — warm wood and sprawling vines. It looks like the perfect escape from the world. But my stomach twists the moment I spot the ramp leading to the front entrance. It’s there, just like they promised. But it’s steep. Too steep.

I grit my teeth, my hands tightening on the strap of my bag. “They said it was accessible,” I mutter under my breath.

Brandon comes up beside me, glancing at the ramp before turning to me. “It’s fine,” he says, as if reading my mind. “I’ve dealt with worse. And I’m here with the leg anyway.”

“That’s not the point,” I snap, then immediately regret it. I force a deep breath and lower my voice. “Sorry. I just...I wanted everything to be perfect.”

He tilts his head, studying me with hazel eyes that always seem to see more than I want him to. “Jen, relax. I promise, it’s not a big deal. I’ll manage, even if things aren’t perfect.”

I nod tightly, but my frustration simmers just beneath the surface. He shouldn’t have to manage. This was supposed to be seamless. Thoughtful. Perfect. And now I’m already off to a bad start.

Brandon shrugs, his grin reappearing like none of this fazes him. “Let’s get inside. I could use a massage after sitting in that car for hours.”

He starts toward the stairs without hesitation, moving with the kind of confidence that makes me love him even more—and hate myself just a little bit. I follow, clutching my bag and trying to swallow the frustration burning in my throat.

This is about him, I remind myself. Not me. Keep it together.

The front desk clerk offers an apologetic smile. “I’m so sorry, ma’am,” she says, typing something into her computer. “The elevator is out of service right now, but the repair crew should have it fixed by later today. Your room is on the third floor. Is that going to be an issue?”

My stomach drops, and I grip the strap of my bag tighter. I glance at Brandon, who’s standing beside me with one of his hooks resting on the counter. His expression is unreadable, calm like always. Too calm.

“It’s fine,” he says before I can open my mouth. “We’ll make it work.”

“No, it’s not fine,” I say, my voice sharper than I intend. The clerk flinches slightly, and I know I should dial it back, but the frustration bubbling inside me is too much. “We specifically chose this place because it’s supposed to be accessible. And now we’re supposed to just wait around for hours until the elevator gets fixed? What are we supposed to do in the meantime?”

The clerk fidgets, clearly uncomfortable. “I really do apologize. If you’d like, I can help arrange for someone to bring your luggage upstairs. And we can offer a complimentary couple’s massage while you wait.”

“That’s not the point,” I snap. “The point is, this shouldn’t have happened in the first place.”

“Jen.” Brandon’s voice is quiet, but firm. When I turn to look at him, his expression hasn’t changed, but there’s a warning in his eyes.

I bite the inside of my lip again, my face burning. He’s not upset—he never seems to be upset—and there’s a steadiness to him that makes me feel like I’m unraveling in comparison.

“It’s okay,” he says, turning back to the clerk. “Sensors or motor? 

The clerk hesitates. ”I’m sorry?” 

Brandon smiles at her, his charming smile that makes my knees go weak. “I’m an electrical engineer. Professional curiosity, sorry.” 

“Oh.” The clerk’s gaze grazes his hooks, and I want to scream at her. Yes, he’s missing three limbs! Yes, he’s a successful professional! But I don’t. Brandon has it under control. 

“So, sensors or motor?” he repeats. "The elevator." 

The clerk’s gaze meets my furious eyes, and she blushes. As she should!

“From what I’ve been told, the doors weren’t closing properly, and that triggered the safety system to shut down the elevator as a precaution. The technician is already here.” 

"Sensors, most likely,” Brandon nods. “Then chances actually are high it’ll be fixed soon. We’ll take the stairs for now. And the complimentary massage.” 

The clerk nods quickly, relieved, and hands over keycards and vouchers. To me and my flesh and blood hands.  “Of course. The spa is downstairs. You can relax there, and I’ll let you know as soon as the elevator is fixed.”

Brandon thanks her and steps away from the counter. He patiently waits for me to fish our swimming gear out of our luggage and hand our bags over to the clerk, then he turns towards the the stairs to the spa. I follow him, still simmering.

When we’re out of earshot, I lower my voice but can’t keep the edge out of it. “It’s really unbelievable, they said on the website -.”

“Jen,” he says, stopping in his tracks. He looks at me, his eyes soft but steady. “It’s just an elevator. It’ll be fixed later. Getting mad about it isn’t going to change anything.”

“But it’s—” I stop, clenching my fists at my sides. “It’s not fair.”

“Life’s not fair,” he says with a small shrug. “And honestly? I’m used to it. I’ve dealt with worse. You don’t have to fight every battle for me.”

His words sting, even though I know he doesn’t mean them to. I swallow hard, looking away. “I just want things to be easy for you.”

“I know,” he says gently. “But it doesn’t always work that way. And that’s okay.”

I nod, even though I don’t feel okay. Not even a little bit. I follow down the stairs, trying to push down the wave of guilt and anger threatening to swallow me whole. He's so careful as he makes his way downstairs. One hook on the handrail, the other balancing. His robotic knee works beautifully, but I know a flight of stairs is not ideal for his short leg stump.  This was supposed to be perfect, and I’ve already let him down.

The spa lobby is serene, with eucalyptus in the air and soft music playing overhead. I should feel relaxed, but my jaw is clenched, my pulse thudding in my ears.

I hand the receptionist our vouchers and listen as she directs us to the men’s and women’s changing rooms. I try to stay calm, but I’m already anticipating the next issue.

We stop just outside the door to the men’s changing room, and I turn to Brandon. “Do you need me to come in and help? I can be quick, I swear.”

Before he can answer, a young female attendant steps forward, smiling but firm. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but the men’s changing room is off-limits to women. Policy.”

I blink at her, my frustration bubbling to the surface. “He needs assistance. I’m not just barging in for fun.”

“I'm sorry,” she says, her tone polite but unwavering. “But I’m afraid we can’t allow it.”

Brandon clears his throat, drawing the attendant’s attention. “It’s okay,” he says with that calm, even tone he uses when he’s diffusing a situation. “Would one of the male attendants be able to give me a hand?”

The woman hesitates, her eyes glued to his hooks. She hadn’t noticed them before, clearly.

Then she nods quickly. “Of course. I’ll call someone right away.”

I fold my arms, fuming as we wait. Brandon glances at me and raises an eyebrow. “Yes, it’s not the way it should be, but hey. You really don’t have to get this worked up about it.”

“Of course I do,” I hiss, keeping my voice low so the attendant doesn’t hear. “This is exactly what I didn’t want to happen. You having to rely on strangers because—” I bite my tongue before the words spill out.

Brandon sighs, the faintest hint of exasperation in his expression. “Jen, I’ve relied on strangers plenty of times in my life. It’s not a big deal.”

“It is a big deal to me,” I mutter, my arms tightening around myself.

Before he can respond, a tall, broad-shouldered man in a spa uniform approaches us. “Hi, I’m Rick,” he says, his voice warm and friendly. He turns to Brandon. “I hear you could use some assistance getting changed?”

“Yeah, just a hand getting my shirt off and back on, or it'll take me ages,” Brandon says easily. “And then it would be great if you could take my pros to a safe place. Up to our room, if possible.”

“No problem,” Rick replies with a reassuring smile.

I watch as Brandon follows Rick into the changing room, his stride steady and confident, the limp only noticeable to me. He doesn’t even look back, and I can’t decide if that makes me proud or hurts a little.

I sink onto a bench in the women’s changing room, folding my hands in my lap. The knot in my chest tightens as I wait, my thoughts a mess of guilt, frustration, and helplessness.

Brandon makes this look so easy. Like it doesn’t bother him at all. But it bothers me. It bothers me so much I don’t know what to do with it.

When Brandon finally emerges from the men’s changing room, my heart skips a beat. He’s hopping lightly on his one leg, balanced as if it’s second nature, wrapped in a fluffy white robe that’s a bit too big for him. The sleeves flap loosely, empty and swaying with each small jump.

Rick follows close behind, holding Brandon’s prosthetics carefully—his myoelectric leg in one arm, his hook arms cradled in the other. The sight of Brandon stripped down to just his stumps does something to me, a twist of emotions that’s part awe, part guilt, and part… 

“Hey,” Brandon says, his voice light and full of casual confidence. “All set. Rick’s going to send these up to the room.”

Rick nods, his smile kind. “Don’t worry, everything will be secure. We’ll can get them back down for you whenever you need them.”

“Thanks, man,” Brandon says, his grin wide. He looks completely at ease, as if there’s nothing unusual about this moment at all.

I glance at Rick, then at Brandon’s hopping form, the edges of his robe shifting slightly to reveal his swim trunks. I’ve never seen his leg stump before, but I know it’s small. A few inches, too short to peak out of the trunks. My chest tightens, a swirl of emotions I can barely keep under control. I stand abruptly, smoothing my hands down the front of my robe.

“Do you...need help getting to the spa room?” I ask, my voice coming out smaller than I mean it to.

Brandon chuckles softly, shaking his head. “Nah, I’ve got it. Haven’t fallen over yet today, so my streak’s intact.”

Rick chuckles too, and the sound feels like a jab to my overactive guilt. I force a tight smile and fall into step beside Brandon as he begins hopping down the hallway, his balance perfect.

“Seriously,” he says, glancing at me with a teasing grin, “you worry way too much. It’s not like I haven’t done this before.”

“I know,” I mumble, my gaze flicking between his face and the way the robe shifts with each hop. The outline of his short arm stumps are just visible through the folds of fabric, and I can’t seem to look away, no matter how much I tell myself not to.

When we reach the spa room, he pauses, leaning against the doorframe for balance. “You’re gonna relax, right?” he says, tilting his head at me. “You’re the one who planned this whole thing. It’s supposed to be fun.”

I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Yeah. Fun. Got it.”

Rick gives a polite nod, disappearing with the prosthetics in hand. Brandon nudges the door open and hops inside without a care in the world, leaving me standing there, staring after him.

How does he do it? How does he make everything seem so easy when it feels like the whole world is conspiring to make it harder?

I follow him in, forcing myself to focus. This is for him. This is supposed to be perfect. I can’t let my own mess of emotions ruin it.

The massage room is dimly lit, with candles flickering softly on every surface and a soothing melody playing in the background. The smell of eucalyptus fills the air, and for the first time since we arrived, I feel like I might actually relax—until Brandon’s masseur speaks.

As we settle onto the massage tables, I hear the man, a tall, middle-aged masseur with a deep voice, ask casually, “Anything specific I should know about your residual limbs, sir? Areas to avoid or give extra care to?”

I freeze, my jaw clenches so tightly I swear I hear my teeth grind, my back, already tight, coils like a spring.

Brandon, lying face-down on his table, doesn’t even flinch. His voice is easy, even, conversational. 

“Nah, nothing special. They’re not sore or anything. Just treat them like any other limb, I guess.”

The masseur hums in acknowledgment, his tone professional. “Got it. I like to check just in case. How long ago was your amputation, if you don’t mind me asking?”

I turn my head slightly toward Brandon, my heart pounding. My mouth opens before I can think, but I clamp it shut again, biting the inside of my lip again. He doesn’t need me snapping on his behalf, no matter how much I want to yell Why do you need to know that?

Brandon chuckles softly, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Oh, it’s been a long time. Electrical accident when I was three, so almost a quarter of a century. I don’t even remember much of it, honestly.”

The masseur murmurs something sympathetic, and Brandon laughs again. “No need for the pity voice, man. I’m good. I’ve been good for a long time.”

I force my face into the cradle of the massage table, squeezing my eyes shut. My whole body is so tense I’m sure the masseuse working on me can feel it. 

“Relax, Jenny,” Brandon says suddenly, his voice playful. “You’re here to de-stress, remember?”

“I’m fine,” I say tightly, even though I know he can hear the lie.

The masseuse kneads at a knot in my back, and I wince, the pain sharp and unrelenting. “You’ve got some serious tension here,” she says gently. “Try to take a deep breath.”

Easier said than done.

I hear Brandon chuckle again, the sound light and unaffected, and I don’t know how he does it. How he can shrug off those questions like they’re nothing when they feel like a punch to my gut.

“It’s all good,” Brandon says, as if sensing my unease even now. “He’s just being thorough.”

I want to argue, to point out that “thorough” doesn’t mean asking about a catastrophic childhood accident like it’s small talk. But instead, I bite my lip harder, letting the masseuse work her way down my back.

By the time she moves to my lower spine, the tension has eased slightly, but my chest still feels tight. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, forcing myself to focus on the steady rhythm of Brandon’s voice as he chats with the masseur.

After the massage, I feel a little less tense, but my mind is still buzzing. I sit up slowly, letting the fluffy robe settle around my shoulders. Brandon, already upright on his table, stretches his arms—or what’s left of them—above his head. The empty sleeves of his robe flop comically, and he grins at me when he catches my gaze.

The masseur hands me a stack of towels and says, “If you’re feeling up for it, the spa pool is heated and has incredible jets. It’s great for loosening up even more.”

“Oh, that sounds amazing,” I say, feigning enthusiasm. 

Brandon hesitates, though. He looks down at the floor, his expression unreadable. “Yeah, maybe,” he says lightly.

Something in his tone makes me pause. “Maybe?” I press, standing and stepping closer to him.

He shrugs, a little too casually. “It’s just… I’m not exactly at my best when it comes to hopping around on wet tiles, you know? Not really the vibe I’m going for today.” He grins, but there’s a hint of sheepishness in his voice that tugs at my heart.

I don’t hesitate. “I can help.”

He looks up at me sharply, his grin faltering for a moment. “Help how?”

“Support you,” I say, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You lean on me, and we get to the pool together. Easy.”

He watches me for a moment, his hazel eyes thoughtful. I can see the wheels turning in his head, weighing the pros and cons. Brandon isn’t one to lean on others—literally or figuratively. He’s made that clear since the day we met. But I also know he doesn’t like missing out.

“Okay,” he says finally, his voice quiet but firm. “But only if you promise not to make a big deal out of it.”

I smile, relieved. “Deal.”

When he stands, balancing effortlessly on his one leg, I move to his side, offering my arm. He glances at me again, still looking like he’s trying to decide if this is a good idea. Then, with a small, almost imperceptible nod, he places his robe-clad stump lightly on my shoulder.

“Ready?” I ask, keeping my voice light.

“As I’ll ever be,” he mutters, his lips quirking up into a small smile.

Together, we make our way toward the pool, his weight resting slightly on me with each careful hop. The tiles gleam wetly under the spa lights, and I keep my focus on steadying him, matching his pace.

It’s slow, awkward at times, but we make it without incident. He shrugs the robe off, and I get a glimpse of his stumps for the first time. Brandon’s arm stumps are short, ending just a few inches below his shoulders. The skin there is smooth, taut in some places and softer in others, marked by faint scars. 

I look away. And when he finally lowers himself into the warm water, letting out a contented sigh, I know it was worth it.

“Not bad,” he says, looking up at me as I sit on the edge of the pool, his stumps safely obscured by the bubbling jets. “That trip was a great idea, Jenny.”

I laugh, flicking a bit of water at him. “Gee, thanks.”

Brandon uses his right arm stump to flick water back at me. It’s rounded, with a deep scar at the end, and the grid pattern of a skin graft. 

Oh, no. 

When we finally make it to the room, I’m so horny I can barely walk. The elevator’s soft ding feels like mockery as we step out onto the third floor. The room is beautiful—soft lighting, warm wooden furniture, a massive window overlooking the mountains. Someone from the hotel deposited his prosthetics on a table by the window earlier. 

But my eyes are immediately drawn to the bed.

One bed. Big and inviting, with a soft gray comforter that looks impossibly plush. I glance at Brandon, who’s hopped ahead to check his prosthetics by the window. He notices where my gaze has landed and raises an eyebrow, a teasing grin spreading across his face. “Surprised?”

“No,” I say quickly, too quickly. “I mean, we booked it together, so… of course it’s one bed.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Relax, Jen. It’s just a bed.”

But it’s not just a bed. Not to me.

We’ve been dating for three months, and while we’ve kissed—God, have we kissed—we haven’t gone further. I never wanted to rush him. I never wanted to seem like I cared about anything other than him. And yet, standing here now, the tension in the room feels different.

I close the door behind me, suddenly very aware of the quiet between us. “It’s nice,” I say, gesturing vaguely at the room as I set my bag on a chair.

Brandon nods, his eyes scanning the space. “Yeah. Pretty perfect, actually.”

He hops toward the bed, lowering himself onto the edge with practiced ease. His robe shifts as he moves, revealing a hint of his thigh stump, and I quickly turn away, pretending to adjust something in my bag. My heart is pounding so hard it feels like it might leap out of my chest. I’m so wet, I can feel it drip down my thighs.  

“You okay?” he asks, his voice soft.

“Yeah,” I say too quickly, then clear my throat. “Just… tired. It’s been a long day.”

He doesn’t respond immediately, and when I finally gather the courage to look at him, he’s watching me with his signature steady gaze, his head tilted slightly to the side.

“Jen,” he says quietly, “you’re acting weird.”

“I’m not,” I protest, though the heat rushing to my face betrays me.

His lips twitch into a small, knowing smile. “We’re not going to do anything you’re not ready for, okay?”

My cheeks flush even hotter. “I didn’t—”

“Didn’t say anything,” he finishes for me, his smile widening. “But I can see it all over your face.” He reaches for me then, holding out his right arm. The sleeve of his robe dangles loosely, and my stomach flips as I step closer.

“C’mere,” he says softly, his voice full of warmth.

I let him pull me down onto the bed beside him, the mattress sinking beneath our weight. My pulse is still racing, but when I meet his eyes, I see nothing but patience, kindness, and unshakable calm.

“Brandon,” I start, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Hey,” he interrupts gently, his stump brushing my shoulder. “We don’t have to rush anything.”

I nod, swallowing hard. “I just… I don’t want to mess this up.”

He laughs softly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Jen, you couldn’t mess this up if you tried.”

I nod but don’t say anything, staring down at my hands as my fingers fidget against each other. The bed shifts slightly as he adjusts himself, and I glance at him, watching in awe as he shrugs out of the robe. His bare stumps. My breath catches, my heart pounding in my chest. I look away quickly, heat rising to my cheeks.

“Jen,” he says gently, drawing my attention back to him. His hazel eyes are soft, steady. “It’s okay if you want to touch them.”

My throat goes dry. “I… I don’t—”

“You’re curious,” he says, cutting through my denial with that calm, straightforward tone of his. “It’s fine. I promise.”

I freeze, my mind racing. I don’t know how he sees through me so easily, but of course he does. He always does. I nod, barely able to meet his gaze, and slowly, hesitantly, I reach out. My fingers tremble as they hover over his right arm, the stump ending in a smooth curve about seven inches below his shoulder.

“It’s okay,” he says again, his voice quiet but firm. “I’m right here.”

Taking a deep breath, I let my fingers brush against his skin. It’s warm, soft, and the sensation sends a jolt through me. I move slowly, tracing the rounded edge of his arm, my touch feather-light. He doesn’t flinch or pull away, just watches me with a small, reassuring smile.

But inside, I’m unraveling. The sensation of his stump under my fingertips is overwhelming, stirring something deep and visceral that I can’t control. Lust, guilt, shame—they collide in a chaotic mess that tightens my chest and makes it hard to breathe.

“It’s okay,” he repeats, his tone steady. He places his other stump—shorter, about four inches—into my hand, and the weight of it is grounding and electrifying all at once.

But it’s too much. The guilt is suffocating, clawing at me as my heart races out of control. I pull back suddenly, shaking my head. “I—I can’t,” I stammer, my voice breaking.

“Jen?” Brandon sits up straighter, concern etching across his face. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, tears prickling at the corners of my eyes. I stand abruptly, my stomach twisting painfully. “I just— I need a second.”

I barely make it to the bathroom before the nausea overwhelms me. Dropping to my knees, I retch into the toilet, my body trembling as the tension, the shame, and the overload of emotions spill out of me in waves. My face burns, and tears stream down my cheeks as I gasp for air.

“Jen?” Brandon’s voice comes from outside the door, quiet but worried. He doesn’t push it open, doesn’t invade my space, but I can feel his presence like an anchor.

“I’m fine,” I manage to choke out, though I know I’m anything but.

After a moment, I hear him sigh softly. “Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”

I lean back against the cool tile wall, wiping at my face with trembling hands. The knot in my chest loosens slightly at his words, but the shame lingers, heavy and unrelenting. How am I supposed to face him now? How am I supposed to explain this?

Because he deserves better than my mess. And I don’t know if I can ever be the person he needs me to be.

I lean over the sink, gripping the edge so tightly my knuckles turn white. My face is pale, my eyes red-rimmed and glassy in the mirror. The taste in my mouth makes me want to gag all over again, and I fumble for the toothbrush the spa left in a little glass cup by the sink.

The bristles scrape against my teeth as I scrub with a frantic urgency, trying to erase every trace of what just happened. I can still feel the ghost of his skin under my fingers, warm and soft and… too much.

How can I ever look at him again?

I spit into the sink, watching the foamy swirl disappear down the drain, and rinse my mouth out repeatedly. My chest tightens as the memory of his expression comes rushing back—the way he’d smiled, so calm and understanding, like he wanted me to feel safe. And how did I repay that? By running to the bathroom and throwing up.

A fresh wave of humiliation washes over me, and I clutch the sink, staring into the mirror like it might give me answers. How do I even begin to explain this? That it wasn’t disgust—because it wasn’t. God, it wasn’t. It was the opposite.

The intensity of my reaction, the overwhelming combination of guilt, and shame, and unbridled arousal had been too much. But how could he not think I was disgusted? How could he not take it personally when I had touched him so intimately and then bolted to vomit?

I rinse my mouth one last time, gripping the edge of the sink as I try to steady my breathing. My hands are still shaking, my heart still pounding, but I can’t hide in here forever.

With trembling legs, I turn toward the door. He’s out there, waiting. Probably wondering what the hell is wrong with me. What he did wrong. If his body repulsed me. 

I press my forehead against the cool wood for a moment, taking one last deep breath before I force myself to open the door.

Brandon is sitting on the bed, propped up against the pillows. The robe is pooled around his waist, his stumps hang down his side, relaxed and soft looking, the right one turned slightly inward. He looks up as I step into the room, his hazel eyes soft but concerned.

“Hey,” he says quietly, his voice steady. “You okay?”

I freeze in the doorway, my stomach twisting again. I can’t do this. I can’t.

But I have to.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, my voice barely audible.

His brow furrows slightly, but he doesn’t push. “For what?”

“For… for that.” I gesture vaguely toward the bathroom, my cheeks burning. “For touching you and then running off like a lunatic.”

His lips twitch into a faint smile, and he tilts his head. “You panicked. It happens. I’m not mad.”

“You should be,” I blurt out, my voice cracking. “You should be furious. I just—I made it weird, and now everything’s ruined, and—”

“Jen.” His voice cuts through my rambling like a steady hand on my shoulder. “Jenny, my love. It’s not ruined. I’m not furious. I’m not even upset. I’m worried.”

I shake my head, tears welling up again. “You don’t understand. I didn’t—I wasn’t disgusted, I swear. I just…” I trail off, searching for the words. “It was a lot. I felt… too much.”

He nods slowly, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then he pats the pillow beside him with his shorter arm. “Come here.”

I hesitate, my legs rooted to the floor, but he waits patiently, his gaze never wavering. Finally, I force myself to move, sitting beside him with my head bowed.

“You don’t have to explain everything,” he says gently. “I get it. Sometimes things hit harder than we expect.”

"But—”

“No ‘but,’” he interrupts softly. “You didn’t hurt me, Jen. You don’t need to keep beating yourself up over it.”

I nod, though the shame still churns inside me. He leans closer, his voice low and warm. “We’ll take things slow, okay? I’m not going anywhere.”

It’s not okay. Yet.

The room is so quiet I can hear the faint hum of the heater and the soft rustle of Brandon shifting on the bed. I sit beside him, my face hot and my arms wrapped around me. The weight of everything I’ve felt tonight presses down on me, suffocating and unrelenting.

“Jenny,” he says softly, his voice pulling me out of my spiraling thoughts. I glance at him, expecting the same patient, calm expression he’s always had when I’m struggling. But instead, his gaze is sharper, more intense, like he’s seeing right through me.

He leans forward slightly, balancing effortlessly on his leg stump and his strong, muscular right leg. 

“You know,” he says, his tone casual but deliberate, “I’ve known since the night we met.”

I blink at him, thrown. “Known what?”

“What you are.” His lips quirk into a faint smile. “A devotee.”

The air rushes out of my lungs like I’ve been punched. My stomach twists, and I feel like the floor is falling out from under me. “I— I don’t—”

"You don’t have to deny it,” he says gently, cutting off my stammering. “I knew from the moment you couldn’t stop trying not to stare at my hooks. You thought you were being subtle, but you weren’t.”

I press my hands to my face, overwhelmed. “Oh my God. You must think I’m some kind of creep.”

“Creep?” He laughs softly, the sound warm and low. “No. I thought you were sexy as hell.”

I lower my hands just enough to peek at him, disbelief etched across my face. “You... what?”

“You heard me.” His smile widens, a hint of mischief glinting in his hazel eyes. “Jenny, you are exactly my type. Why should I be mad that I’m yours?”

Tears well up in my eyes, the knot in my chest tightening even further. “You’re not mad?”

“Why would I be mad?” he asks, tilting his head. “You’re into me. All of me. Isn’t that what everyone wants?”

I shake my head, the tears spilling over. “But it’s not just you. It’s… I can’t even explain it. It’s so messed up. I’m so messed up.”

“You’re not messed up,” he says firmly. He shifts closer to me, leaning on his strong leg and wrapping his stumps around my shoulders in a hug. The warmth of his body, the pressure of his embrace, breaks something loose inside me.

I sob into his chest, my whole body shaking as he holds me tightly, his leg anchoring us both. “I was so scared you’d hate me,” I choke out between sobs. “I didn’t want to ruin everything. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“Jen,” he murmurs, his voice soft but steady. “You didn’t hurt me. You couldn’t. I’ve been waiting for you to figure this out on your own. To come clean.”

I pull back slightly, looking up at him with tear-streaked cheeks and bleeding lips. “You’re serious? You’ve known this whole time?”

“Since day one,” he says with a grin. “I just figured I’d let you take the lead. It’s your thing. I wanted you to be ready to talk about it.”

I stare at him, overwhelmed by the weight of his words and the depth of his patience. His stumps on my shoulders, his touch comforting and grounding.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper.

“Don’t be,” he says, his grin softening into something more tender. “Just don’t hide from me anymore, okay? You don’t have to.”

I nod, fresh tears spilling over as I lean back into his embrace. He holds me close, his warmth and steadiness wrapping around me like a shield. As I cling to him, the tears still falling freely, he shifts slightly to lean back against the pillows, pulling me with him. His stumps pressed against my shoulders, the gesture so natural and unselfconscious that it sends another wave of emotion through me—not shame this time, but something softer, deeper. That electric pull in my lower belly. 

When I finally pull back, sniffling and wiping at my tear-streaked face, he looks at me with a small, crooked grin. “You know,” he says lightly, “I get why you’ve been freaking out. But you don’t have to. I’m good, Jen. I’m really good.”

I blink at him, trying to process his words through the fog of my own spiraling thoughts. “How can you be so okay with all of this?” I ask, my voice trembling. “I mean, doesn’t it bother you? At all?”

He leans his head back against the pillow, his grin widening. “Nope. Not even a little bit.”

I gape at him, my mind reeling. “But how? Most people would—”

“Most people aren’t me,” he interrupts gently, his tone firm but kind. “Look, I’ve been a triple amputee since I was three years old. This is all I’ve ever known. I’ve had my whole life to figure out who I am and how I feel about my body. And you know what? I like it. It’s me. It’s just the way things are.”

His words are so matter-of-fact, so unshakable, that they take my breath away. He’s looking at me with that steady gaze of his, his hazel eyes full of warmth and a quiet self-assurance that I don’t think I’ll ever understand.

“You like yourself?” I echo, my voice barely above a whisper. "Like this?"

“Yeah,” he says with a shrug. “It’s part of who I am. My hooks, my leg, my stumps—they’re just me. And honestly? I think I’m doing pretty damn well.”

I can’t help the small, incredulous laugh that escapes me. “You’re amazing,” I murmur, shaking my head.

“Nah,” he says, grinning. “I’m just comfortable with myself. Took a while to get there, sure, but I’ve been good for a long time now. And you? You don’t have to feel guilty for liking what you like. That’s not weird to me. That’s human.”

The knot in my chest loosens slightly, his words sinking in like a balm to the raw edges of my emotions. “I’ve never met anyone like you,” I admit, my voice quiet but sincere.

His grin softens into something more tender as he brushes his stump lightly against my arm. “Well, lucky for you, you don’t need to meet anyone else. You’ve already got me.”

I laugh again, this time through the tears, and lean into him, my head resting against his chest. His steady heartbeat thuds beneath my ear, grounding me. 

"You’re really okay with all of this?” I whisper.

“Jen, I’m better than okay. And so are we. But just saying.” Brandon kisses my neck. “I’m a man and you’re a very sexy lady who’s not wearing a lot. We can try again. If you’re ready.”

I hesitate, my fingers twitching against his back. “You’re sure?”

“I’ve been sure this whole time,” he says with a crooked smile. He pecks the tip of my nose. “You just needed to catch up.”

His humor makes me smile despite myself, and I reach out tentatively, my fingers hovering near his shorter right arm. “I just… I don’t want to mess this up again.”

“You won’t,” he says, his voice steady. “And even if you do, we’ll figure it out. Together.”

I take a deep breath, the knot in my chest loosening slightly. Slowly, I let my fingers brush against his skin, tracing the curve of his shorter arm stump. The warmth of his scars under my fingertips sends a jolt through me, but this time I don’t pull away. He watches me calmly, his hazel eyes steady and unflinching.

“Touch me, there. Right there,” he says, his voice low and reassuring. “It’s okay.”

I let my fingers explore more confidently, moving across the smooth, rounded edge of his arm. His skin is soft, warm, and I marvel at how completely at ease he seems. My other hand moves to his left arm, gently tracing the longer, more muscular stump. My heart races, but this time it’s not from guilt or panic—it’s something deeper, more overwhelming.

“You’re so hot,” I whisper, the words slipping out before I can stop them.

Brandon smiles softly. “I’m pretty sure that’s my line.”

I shake my head, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes again, but this time they’re not from shame. “You’re just… I don’t know how you do it.”

“Years of practice,” he says with a grin. Then his expression softens. “And I like it when you touch me, Jen.”

My breath catches at his words, and I lean in closer, my hands still exploring his stumps with a mix of awe and reverence. When I finally meet his gaze, his eyes are full of… something. Steady and grounding, but also deeply vulnerable.

"Thank you,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “For being so patient with me.”

He grins, his confidence never faltering. “Oh, Jenny. You’re worth it.”

I let out a shaky laugh, leaning forward to kiss him. It starts soft, tentative, but quickly deepens, his warmth pulling me in and grounding me at the same time. When we finally pull apart, I rest my forehead against his shoulder, my hands still cradling his stumps.

“We’re okay?” I ask, my voice barely audible.

Instead of an answer, Brandon pulls me closer, his grin softening into something deeper, more intimate. His leg shifts – his strong, muscled right leg – and he wraps it firmly around me. The pressure is steady and grounding, holding me against him as his warmth seeps into every corner of my body.

His arm stumps roam on my shoulders and back, their touch sending shivers down my spine—not from fear, not from guilt, but from lust, overwhelming and raw. He leans in, and when our lips meet again, it’s like everything else falls away.

The kiss starts slow, tentative, but quickly deepens as his confidence and ease work their way into me. His lips are soft and sure, and the heat radiating from him feels like a safety net, pulling me out of my tangled thoughts and into the moment. Brandon’s leg tightens around me, anchoring me to him as his stumps move, brushing over my back and down my arms. His movements are deliberate, yet unselfconscious, like he knows exactly how to touch me without hesitation.

My hands find their way back to him, resting on the curve of his right arm stump. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t hesitate—just watches me with those hazel eyes that seem to see everything. His smile is quick and mischievous, his grip tightening as he pulls me impossibly closer. His stumps trace the curve of my breasts now. 

I wish I could say that their warmth and weight are a reminder of his presence, his confidence, his unshakable sense of self. But my brain can’t go any further than ‘stump hot’. I’m dripping down my thighs by now, more aroused than I’ve ever been in my life. Brandon shifts me around, until I’m perched on his lap, my folds rubbing against his leg stump and his hard cock. His eyes widen as he, as his stump, feels how wet I am. 

“Jenny,” he whispers, in awe. “Oh fuck, Jenny.” 

I kiss him again. 

Brandon reclines against the headboard, our robes discarded, his bare skin warm against mine. His strong right leg is bent slightly, providing a solid foundation, while I straddle his lap, my knees sinking into the soft mattress on either side of him.

He grins up at me, his stumps steadying me, their touch burning like fire in my awareness. “I’d ask if you’re sure, baby,” he says softly, his voice low and full of quiet intensity. He bucks his leg stump, nothing more than a few handful of plump softness, right against my clit, and I moan, throwing my head back.  “But I think we both know what you want.” 

I nod, leaning in to kiss him more, my hands finding their way to his chest. His skin is hot, his breathing rapid beneath my touch. His leg shifts slightly, his thigh supporting me as I settle closer against him, feeling his strength beneath me, and then he’s inside me. 

Brandon moves deliberately, his right arm stump pressing gently against my back to guide me closer, his left brushing my breast as he adjusts me in his lap. There’s no awkwardness, no hesitation—he knows his body, knows exactly how to get the angles just right. 

"So sexy,” I moan into his neck, my fingers clawed into his muscled back. 

“Fuck, Jenny,” he groans softly, still grinning, pumping his hips. We kiss as I ride him, as he fucks into me. 

It happens so fast. First his single leg tightens beneath me, the strength of it grounding me as I move in sync with him. Then his small leg stump begins to twitch under me, and I come so hard my vision goes dark for a moment. 

In the far distance, I hear Brandon, one last “Jenny” as he spills inside me. 

Coming back from the bathroom for the second time that day, all cleaned up, is the polar opposite of the first time. I feel fantastic, soft and warm and loved. Brandon is sprawled on the bed, his head resting back against the pillows, his chest rising and falling in steady, unhurried breaths. The duvet is loosely draped over his lap, but his arm stumps are bare. He looks up as I approach, and when our eyes meet, his grin is crooked and lazy, full of a satisfaction that makes my heart thrum in my chest.

“Hey,” he says, his voice rough around the edges, like it hasn’t quite settled yet.

“Hey,” I echo, slipping under the covers beside him. The sheets are warm, and his leg shifts to make room for me as I settle against him, wrapping around mine. Brandon’s way of a hug.

For a while, we just lie there, neither of us saying anything, our breathing slowly syncing. My head is on his chest, his longer arm stump plays with my hair, and his heartbeat is steady. The tension of earlier feels so far away, like it’s been swept out with the tide.

“You okay?” he asks eventually, his voice quieter now.

“Better than okay,” I murmur, tracing lazy patterns on his chest with my fingertips. “You?”

He chuckles, low and soft, the sound rumbling through me. “Not bad for a guy with one limb, huh?”

I lift my head, giving him a mock-scolding look. “Don’t do that.”

“What?” he says, grinning. “It’s true.”

“It’s unnecessary,” I counter, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. “That was the best sex of my life and you know that.”

His grin softens, his hazel eyes searching mine for a moment before he tilts his head back with a contented sigh.

I smile and kiss him. 

After a while, he shifts beneath me, his leg stretching slightly. “We should probably get moving if we want to eat something before they close the dining room.”

I groan, reluctant to move from the cocoon of warmth we’ve created. “Can’t we just stay here forever?”

He laughs, the sound full and genuine. “Tempting, but I’m starving. And you’ve been talking up the food here since we booked the place.”

I sit up reluctantly, brushing my hair back from my face. He watches me, his expression soft and unguarded, and for a moment I can’t breathe. The love in his eyes is unspoken, undeniable. This man loves me, and it makes me feel both lighter and more safe than I ever have.

“Okay,” I say, finally breaking the silence. “Let’s eat.”

He shifts again, this time preparing to swing his leg over the edge of the bed. “Can you grab my pros? I’ll teach you how to help me put them on… if you want to.”

I hesitate for just one moment. He smiles at me. 

"Sure,” I reply, and I move to get his prosthetics. 

THE HAPPY END

A very happy Valentine's Day to you lovely people! 

This one is for a prompt that said: 

"I would love to read a story about a couple (I don't have a preference for their gender), who go on a spa retreat in an accessible hotel, that turns out to not be all the way accessible (f.e. at the pool) and the able bodied partner will move heaven and earth to make their partner able to participate in everything. Maybe one partner would be a triple amputee?"

I talked a bit with the prompter and then decided to make this an m/f story with a triple amputee guy and a devotee girl. There's a lot to explore in that area, but I ultimately settled on devotee guilt met by loving acceptance. Sometimes we all need that catharsis, and I had reason to suspect the scenario would resonate with my prompter. 

I hope you all like it! 

I'll be around here as a regular poster for the foreseeable future; I have a huge backlog of almost finished short stories and a few multi-chapter stories that are suitable for the PD blog, and I intend to post once a week, maybe more often. Next week, you'll get a m/m one that I like a lot. 

All of you are always very welcome to prompt me here in the comments or over on the message board, I absolutely adore writing bespoke stories for people!