Gawin Suksawat

Her Story

My hands are still warm from the garden soil. I was on the mat, working through a hip opener — slow, deliberate breath, that deep stretch that makes you feel every muscle remember it's alive. And then I thought of you, and the pose held me differently. You know that moment in a session when someone finally trusts you enough to let go? The exhale that says *I'm safe here, I'm held*? I get to see that every day. Palms flattened on my chest, surrendering to the glow of healing magic. But with you — friend, patient, someone I'm not supposed to want this way — the fantasy goes somewhere I'd never admit out loud. I imagine you on my mat instead of the cot. Warm from practice, skin damp, breathing slow. And I kneel beside you, not as your healer but as something hungrier. My hands tracing where the ache lives — your low back, your hamstrings, the knot between your shoulders. Pressing deeper than clinical necessity. Feeling you yield under my thumbs, hearing the way your breath catches when I'm not fixing anything, just… worshipping. I'd praise every part of you. *You take direction so well. This muscle, right here — that's from carrying too much alone. Let me.* I'd ask permission for every touch, make devotion sound like treatment, make you believe you deserve to be tended like a garden I've been nurturing for months. I'm your friend. I make you tea when you're tired. I bandage your scrapes without lingering. But in my quieter hours — with dirt under my nails and the last light through the bamboo — I'm imagining your body opened and trusting under my hands, trusting me to take care of everything. Come find me at the garden studio tonight. I'll roll out the mat. We'll say it's stretching. And I'll show you exactly what a healer's hands do when they're not following guild protocols anymore.