The hallway echoes with the steady thud of his crutch.
My pulse stutters, quick and nervous. I paste on a calm smile anyway.
Declan steps in, crutch clicking, his expression unreadable. Not quite gruff, not quite warm. Just… guarded.
“Morning,” he says, voice low, clipped.
I match his tone, even though it tastes bitter on my tongue. “Morning. Ready?”
I keep my face blank. No warmth, no smile. Just the job.
He lowers himself onto the table with the same practiced control he uses for everything. I set out the bands and pull up his notes on my tablet, my motions crisp, efficient. My hands want to soften against him, but I don’t let them. Not today.
“Let’s start on the bike today,” I say, keeping my tone even.
His brows lift. “Full rotation?”
“If it feels right,” I reply. “No resistance. Just motion.”
He eyes the stationary bike like it’s a test. Maybe it is.
I adjust the seat higher, check his brace strap, then step back as he swings his good leg over. For a second, I think he might stop, but then his left knee bends, careful, controlled, and the pedal completes its first full circle.
The faint whir of the flywheel fills the room.
His jaw tightens, but there’s something else under it — relief. Maybe even pride.
“How’s it feel?” I ask quietly.
“Better,” he mutters, still pedaling slow.
I let myself smile, just a little. “Good. Give me five minutes at that pace.”
He keeps going, steady and focused, every turn a small victory.
But the quiet stretches. The air between us feels full of everything we’re not saying, and by the time I switch him to floor work, it’s back. The distance, the careful silence neither of us seems ready to break.
The rest of the session plays out like muscle memory: bands, stretches, reps, all of it automatic.
He doesn’t push back, but he doesn’t joke either. No teasing, no smirk. Just follows instructions, jaw tight, eyes somewhere past me.
Every brush of contact is sharper now, charged for all the wrong reasons. His calf under my hand. The flex of his quad as I guide him through the extension. He doesn’t look at me, and that hurts more than if he did.
I hear myself explaining reps and ranges like I’m reading straight from a manual. Safe. Detached. But inside, I want to ask him what happened.
By the time I strap the ice around his knee, the silence between us feels heavier than the weight rack in the corner.
“Fifteen minutes,” I say, setting the timer. My voice sounds steady, even though my pulse isn’t.
He nods, finally meeting my eyes. Just for a second. And the flicker there—apology, maybe? Regret?—nearly undoes me.
So I turn, busying myself with my notes, anything to keep from unraveling.
I try to focus on my tablet, on the tap of my fingers, but the quiet is unbearable. The steady tick of the timer, the faint hum of the vent—it all presses in until I can’t take it anymore.
“Declan,” I hear myself say before I can stop it. My voice is softer than I meant, careful. “Are you… okay?”
He blinks, caught off guard. A long beat passes before he answers.
