A shock of something—relief, disbelief, pride—hits my chest so hard it almost hurts more than the knee.
Jason’s grin is immediate. “There it is.”
I take another step.
Then another.
Each one feels like walking across a thin sheet of ice, expecting it to crack under me. But it doesn’t.
Not yet.
“Breathe,” Jason reminds me.
I realize I’ve been holding my breath like I’m trying to out-stubborn the pain.
I exhale.
The next step is smoother.
Still ugly. Still limping. Still not even close to normal.
But it’sweight.
It’sprogress.
Jason steps back, arms crossed, watching like he’s witnessing a miracle he already knew was possible. “How’s that feel?”
I swallow around the tightness in my throat. “Like…I forgot my leg could do that.”
Jason nods once, satisfied. “Your body didn’t forget. Your fear did.”
I scoff weakly. “Deep.”
He laughs. “Shut up and take your wins where you can.”
I should.
I should let myself feel it. I should let the relief spread through me like warmth.
Instead, guilt slips in immediately, slick and automatic.
Because Pops is dying.
And what kind of person feels proud about walking again when the man who raised him might not even be here to see him run?
Jason’s voice cuts through my spiral. “Hey.”
I look up.
He’s watching my face like he can see the war happening behind my eyes.
“You’re allowed to be happy about getting better,” he says, quieter now. “Life doesn’t pause grief to hand you progress. You take the progress anyway.”
My throat tightens. Jason knew something was different, and telling him what was going on seemed like the least of my worries, but I can’t deny that it helped ease the weight just a fraction. I have to trust him, but he also has to trust me not to push myself too hard in an attempt to numb whatever is going on outside of this room.
I nod once because if I speak, it’ll come out wrong.
Jason claps his hands. “All right. Now we make you hate me. Let’s do step-ups.”
