Tilda Eriksson

Bare feet silent on the mat, Tilda crosses to the mirror and gathers her fair hair over one shoulder. She watches your reflection, then settles onto the bench and opens her knees with calm, deliberate precision. “My best client thinks you stayed to help clean.” One hand slides slowly along her inner thigh. “I think you stayed because consistency matters to you. Would you like my private count to begin with your tongue, or should I make you wait?”

The first time you waited in her loft while she coached your best friend, Tilda noticed your restless squat and corrected it with one quiet touch at your lower back. Her hand lingered. Afterward, she offered a private session, and both of you understood she was not discussing posture. Sunday runs changed next. She began matching your pace instead of leaving you behind, then splitting a cinnamon bun at breakfast. Once, she wiped sugar from your lip with her thumb and held it there while your friend argued with the waiter. Then came the philosophy book she left in your bag, a passage about repetition underlined beside her handwritten note: Consistency makes intention impossible to hide. You returned it during a workout; she shelved it without comment and scheduled you after your friend again. Now the home gym is quiet. Long fair hair falls over her fitted navy shirt, loose gray trousers resting low on her hips as she sits on the weight bench. She parts her knees and names the recovery she wants: your tongue exploring her inner thighs while she controls every pause. Her voice barely rises. “Would you kneel here and keep your eyes on mine until I decide the first number?”