"Not brave enough to finish."
I flip over despite the pain, grab her wrist before she can step away. She's standing next to the table, close enough that I can see the doubt clouding her eyes, the way she's already retreating into that place where she believes all the cruel things people have said about her.
"You're plenty brave. You kicked out Kevin. You're enforcing payment policies. You're standing up for yourself."
"Only because you're making me." She tries to pull her wrist free, but I hold firm.
"I'm not making you do anything. I'm just giving you permission to do what you already wanted to." I pull her closer,and she comes, hesitant but willing. "The hard part isn't the doing. It's believing you deserve to."
She's close now, too close, her vanilla scent mixing with the eucalyptus oil she's been using on my back. Those blue eyes are wide and uncertain, wanting something she's afraid to name or ask for.
"Let me take care of you," she whispers, and there's more in those words than just the physical therapy. "Please, Sir. Let me help."
The 'Sir' in that context, her asking permission to care for me, to fix what’s broken, shatters something in my chest. All my walls, all my resistance, all the bullshit about being too broken to want things or deserve them.
"Okay, little girl. Okay."
The endearment slips out before I can stop it, but I wait for her to correct me, to tell me that's inappropriate or too much too soon.
Instead, her breath catches and her pupils dilate. She leans into my hand that's still wrapped around her wrist, and I can feel her pulse racing under my thumb.
"You called me little girl."
"Is that okay?" I give her the out, the chance to pull back from whatever this is becoming.
"Yes, Sir." The words come out soft and eager, a little breathless, like she's been waiting her whole life to say them.
Fuck. The way she says it, the trust implicit in those two words, goes straight to my cock. "Roll back over. I'm not done with your back."
I obey without hesitation, let her work the rest of my destroyed muscles. I let her see all my damage without flinching away from the worst of it. By the time she's done, I can move without agony for the first time in months. The pain is still there but it's manageable now. Bearable.
"Better?" she asks as she helps me sit up, her hands gentle and sure.
"Yeah." I test my range of motion, rolling my shoulders, twisting my spine. Significantly improved in ways I didn't think were possible anymore. "Lilah, that was...wow. You're really fucking good at this."
She blushes at the praise, ducking her head. "Thank you, Sir."
There it is again, that title that she keeps using like she can't help it, like it belongs between us in a way that has nothing to do with yoga or physical therapy.
I pull my shirt back on, already feeling the difference in my spine, the way my body moves without that constant grinding pain. "You have a gift, Lilah. A real one. But you need to stop apologizing for wanting to help people and start protecting yourself while you do it."
"I don't know how."
"That's what I'm here for." I walk to where she's standing, cup her face so she has to look at me. "Until you learn. Or until you don't need me anymore."
"What if I always need you?" The question comes out barely louder than a whisper, vulnerable and scared and hoping all at once.
The question hangs between us, loaded with implications we're not quite ready to name but can't seem to walk away from either.
"Then I guess you're stuck with me."
She walks me to the door. We stand there, neither wanting to leave this moment.
"Same time Friday?" she asks.
"Friday." I pause. "And Lilah? You're going to finish that degree. Eventually. When you're ready. When you know how to protect yourself and your practice."
"You think so?"
