And as for last night?
That near-kiss?
I tell myself it was the beer. The late hour. A moment of vulnerability.
Nothing more.
And for one second I let something slip.
It won’t happen again.
I’ve got enough mess to navigate without addingthatto the pile.
She’s my physical therapist. My best friend’s little sister.
That line is thick, bright, and non-negotiable.
I reach for the ice pack, strap it tight over my knee, and push to standing.
Time to get my head on straight.
PT starts in an hour.
Last night didn’t just cross a line; it shook one loose. She made it feel safe to talk, and that’s what I can’t stop replaying.
By the time I walk into the training room, I’m ten minutes early, but she’s already here.
Charlie stands at the counter, reviewing something on her tablet. Long blonde hair up, team jacket zipped, twirling her pen, calm as ever. She doesn’t flinch when I enter—just taps the screen, then glances over her shoulder.
“Morning,” she says.
“Hey.”
That’s it. No reference to last night. No shift in her tone. Just clinical professionalism.
I sit on the table, adjusting the strap on my brace as she approaches. My knee’s already stiff. Everything else? Stiffer.
She doesn’t bring up the kiss—or whatever that was. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe I imagined it.
Maybe she’s just better at pretending than I am.
She starts warmups without hesitation. Light mobility checks. Measured cues.
I go through the motions like a machine, giving short, clipped answers to her questions.
Then she steps closer to recheck alignment. “Okay, let’s see where you’re tracking today.”
She crouches beside the table, fingers braced just above my kneecap as she checks how it’s tracking.
Just pressure. Just protocol. Nothing else.
But the second her fingers graze my skin, something tight sparks through my chest.
It’s still here. Quiet. Heavy. Dangerous.
And I hate how much I feel it.
Her hand lingers for half a second, then she straightens.
