I clean the skin with small, clinical circles that have nothing to do with the circles my thoughts run. He holds still in the way only athletes and liars can hold still.
“Pain?” I ask.
“Only when I do this,” he says, flexing so his forearm muscles jump and my professionalism wobbles a fraction.
“Don’t do that,” I say. “Or I’ll tell Coach you need a week in a bubble.”
He leans back a little, eyes sliding to my face. “You’d miss me.”
“Like a rash,” I say, reaching for pre-wrap. The roll whispers against his skin as I wind it, halo-soft. His scent is clean sweat and ice and whatever expensive soap his housekeeper buys in bulk. I angle my body to block the doorway—instinct or habit or both. I don’t need this to be a show.
He watches my hands. “You’re good at this.”
“Don’t flirt with your healthcare provider,” I say, sharper than I mean, because it lands where it shouldn’t. He goes quiet. I regret the edge but not enough to dull it. I anchor the pre-wrap and pick up the rigid tape. “Tell me when it feels too tight.”
He breathes out once, slow. “I’ll survive.”
“That’s not the bar.” I lay the first strip. “The bar is optimal function without further injury.”
“I liked you better when you called me a drama queen.”
“I can multitask,” I say, and our eyes meet for half a second too long. There it is—the undercurrent we pretend is a riptideand not a choice. I look away first, because I have to. I’m the one who signs incident reports when people forget the rules.
Footsteps pass in the hall. The door clicks. I exhale and test his scaphoid with my thumb. He doesn’t flinch. Neither do I. “Grip.” I hand him a shortened stick handle. He wraps his fingers, knuckles whitening, and lifts his brows.
“Better,” he admits.
“It will be if you listen.” I finish the cross strips, smooth the edges, cut the tape clean. My glove squeaks against his skin. Tiny sound, huge reaction in my chest. I step back—for angle and survival. “Again.”
He repeats the grip. The wrap holds. So do I.
Jason rotates the handle like he’s testing a weapon, not a joint. “Admit it,” he says, casual as sin. “You missed having me at your mercy.”
“Mercy implies you ever deserved it.” I take the handle back, set it aside, and lift a cold pack. Condensation beads against my glove as I press it to the padding. “Five minutes. Then contrast.”
His mouth curves. “You giving me the cold shoulder on purpose or is this part of the treatment plan?”
“It’s the don’t-be-an-idiot plan.” I shift the pack, watch the wall clock, count a quiet fifteen before moving it again. The seconds thrum. “And for the record, I’m not your shoulder of any temperature.”
“You used to be,” he says, so softly I could pretend I didn’t hear it.
I set the ice down harder than necessary and peel the glove edge for air. “We used to be a lot of things. Past tense. Keep it that way.”
He studies me. Not the professional once-over I give him—posture, tension—but something more invasive, like he’s mapping borders on a country he remembers too well.
“You’re different,” he says.
“I’m busier.” I swap the cold pack for heat, towel-wrapped so I don’t overcook tissue. He watches the switch like a magic trick. “Heating now. Tell me if it’s too much.”
“Define too much,” he murmurs.
“Jason.”
He exhales in surrender, but his eyes don’t. “Feels good,” he says, voice lower, like warmth is traveling places it shouldn’t. I refuse to follow that thought. I’m a professional, not a bonfire.
The compressor coughs to life in the back. Fluorescents saw at my nerves. I unwrap the heat, check skin, set the cold again. He flinches; I catch his wrist, instinct beating self-preservation. His pulse jumps under my fingers. Mine answers.
“Still dramatic,” I say, but softer. “You’ll live.”
