We all raise ours in agreement. Korbyn smiles tightly as she clinks her mug to ours, but there’s that glint of longing in her eyes.
Love looks different for each of us.
For her, it looks like faith, quiet and unshakable. It always seems to keep her anchored, even when the storm’s already building on the horizon.
5
Lucian
The physical therapy center smells like antiseptic and dreams that died on a treadmill. I’m halfway down the parallel bars, sweat dripping into my eyes and down my spine, when her voice hits my ear like a glitter-covered hammer.
“C’mon, Luce,” she chirps brightly. “You’re doing great today!”
I’ve known this woman for seven fucking months now, and I refuse to remember her name…something ending in-ie. Carrie? Callie? Maybe Kelsey. Whichever it is, she radiates relentless positivity that should be illegal before noon.
She smiles like this place is fun, like I have not spent seven months fantasizing about throwing one of these bars through the nearest window just to escape the sight of my own struggle.
Her fingers graze my arm, and I resist the urge to recoil like a cat that hates affection.
Which is the exact opposite of Sir Sass, who loves affection, but I’m ignoring that truth.
“Lift a little higher on that left side,” she encourages. “Good. Strong and steady.”
Strong is a generous word. I grunt in response, because wasting breath on small talk feels like a luxury any time I’m in this building.
Focus.
Pretend you’re not broken.
The memory of the first day here slams into me—I was so angry and high on painkillers. There’s a vivid memory of trying to rip the bar out of the floor so no one would see me fall. My best friend, Orion, was with me the entire time. He was silent, pretending to be unfazed, jaw ticking like the whole world was held together by willpower and duct tape.
“You’re too damn stubborn to stay down,” he’d said at the end.
I’d wanted to punch him.
He wasn’t wrong.
I hear his voice again, and this time it’s not a memory. “Looks like they haven’t broken you yet.”
I look up, and there he is: Orion Smith, soldier-built and annoyingly handsome, the type of man who carries a whole personality in the way he folds his arms. He fills the doorway like he owns the light. For a second, my chest forgets how to behave. God, I missed him.
I would never say that out loud. I would rather be shot again than hand him that small, dangerous truth.
“Shit,” I mutter. “Why are you here?”
He moves closer with that stupid confident stride like the world is his hallway. “Checking if you finally stopped being a stubborn bastard.”
“I’m still breathing, aren’t I?”
“Barely,” he says, smirking. Bastard.
Before I can answer, movement flickers in my peripheral vision. Kenzie appears from the nurses’ station like a brunette alert signal. She’s all curls and spray-tan glow and that kind of bright, effortless smile that looks rehearsed in the mirror every morning. It is literally so big it almost feels like an accessory.
She beelines straight for Orion, clipboard hugged to her chest like a prop in a romantic comedy.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she says, all honey and professional politeness. “But this is a closed session. Clinic visits are by appointment only.”
Orion tilts his head, that disarming grin sliding into place—the one that gets him past most security checkpoints and, apparently, physical therapists. “Good thing I’m practically family. I’m Orion. It’s so nice to meet you.”
