Chapter 1
CHAPTER
Marisol Vance had been paid to hold strangers before
She had held grieving women who couldn't bear going home to empty beds. She had held men who hadn't been touched kindly in years. She had held college students who cried into her shoulder while insisting they weren't crying.
She had learned that people were complicated about touch.
Some wanted too much, Others wanted none
The majority wanted to be held but were embarrassed by how badly they needed it.
Her job was simple, “Make them feel safe, owned and never to confuse comfort with love.
That last rule mattered most.
So when Marisol walked into a converted textile mill on a rainy Tuesday afternoon and a tall man behind a mixing console said, "I need you to lie beside a stranger and make it sound like you trust him," she stopped.
She looked at him, then at the microphones and back at him.
"That's your pitch?"
He looked at the notebook in front of him.
"I'm still working on it"
She laughed.
It was the first mistake.
The second was looking at him for too long.
Desmon Ethan popularly known as (Dez) was attractive in an inconvenient way. Not polished or deliberately charming. His black T-shirt stretched across his shoulders, his sleeves were pushed to his elbows and his hair was tied loosely at the back.
He looked like someone who forgot mirrors existed.
"You must be Marisol.
"Depends who's asking"
"Desmond"
"I know"
He raised an eyebrow.
"You read the email"
"I did”,” Good"
She dropped her bag onto the nearest chair.
The building had once been a textile factory. Now the enormous brick structure housed artists, wellness practitioners, musicians and small businesses.
Dez had converted one section into an audio studio.
Microphones hung from metal frames, acoustic panels covered the walls. Cables ran beneath the floor. In the middle stood a wide padded platform.
Marisol pointed toward it,"That's where you want me?"
"Eventually","That sounded ominous", "It isn't"
"People who say that usually know it is",
He smiled
She noticed a faint scar near his jaw.
"Before we start," she said, pulling out her contract, "we establish boundaries."
His expression became serious,"Of course"
"No recording outside the agreed material"
"Agreed"
"No use of my voice or likeness for advertising without written permission"
"Agreed"
"If I say stop, everything stops"
"Absolutely"
"And no improvising."
He nodded.
"You've done this before"
"I've spent years teaching people that consent isn't a mood"
Something shifted in his expression, Respect, perhaps.
"Fair enough."
She extended her hand.
He shook it, His hand was warm, His grip was careful. Neither was released immediately.
Marisol pulled her hand back.
"Let's work"
Dez explained the project.
His company was developing an immersive sleep application designed to replace the artificial sounds people usually listened to at night.
No generic rain and computer-generated breathing.
They wanted human presence.
Two people breathing, Fabric moving, A reassuring voice.
The faint sound of someone shifting beside you.
"People don't always need advice," Dez said. "Sometimes they just need to hear another person existing nearby"
Marisol looked at him.
"That's surprisingly profound for a man who opened with a terrible sales pitch"
"I contain multitudes "She smiled.
The first recording was simple.
They sat beside each other.The microphones were positioned several feet away.
"Close your eyes," Dez said.
"Why?", "So you stop watching me,"I wasn't watching you","You were"
She narrowed her eyes.
"You seem very confident", "I'm an audio engineer. I notice things"
"Fine"
She closed her eyes.
Silence settled. Then she heard him breathing. Slowly, too slowly
She opened one eye.
"You're holding your breath","I'm not", "You are"
"I'm concentrating", "On breathing?" "Apparently"
She laughed. His breathing changed.
This time it sounded natural.
Marisol closed her eyes again. Their shoulders touched. Barely at first.
The microphones captured the rustle of their clothing
She felt his warmth through the fabric.
"Good," he murmured
"What?", "The sound"
She smiled
"Are you complimenting my lungs?, "Apparently."
They continued.
After several minutes, Dez asked, "Can I try something?"
"What?"
"Your hand", He indicated his forearm.
Marisol understood.
She placed her hand there.
His skin was warm, His breathing changed immediately.
She noticed. He noticed too
Neither spoke.She withdrew her hand, "That's enough."
"We still have twenty minutes", "I know "
He looked at her. "Did I do something?"
"No", "Then why stop?"
She stood.
"Because you're not as good at hiding things as you think", His mouth curved slightly."Neither are you"
That stopped her. For a second, neither moved.
Then Marisol picked up her bag.
"I'll see you Thursday", She walked out.
Dez watched the door close.That should have been the end of it.
A successful first session.Nothing more.
Later that night, he sat alone in the studio and played the recording.
Her breathing filled his headphones.
Then his and then the sound of their shoulders moving against fabric.
He isolated the tracks.Something strange happened.Their breathing had synchronized.
Not immediately but gradually without either of them trying.
Dez listened again, then again and finally, he removed the headphones.The studio was silent.He should have been thinking about the project.
Instead, he was thinking about her hand on his arm.That was dangerous.
Marisol Vance was supposed to be part of the recording.
A voice, her heartbeat, a human presence, nothing more.Yet somehow,
after one afternoon, he could still feel her touch.
And for the first time in years, Dez found himself wishing a recording could become a memory without needing to be played again.
