"Done properly," I confirm. "Which means full range of motion, no cutting corners, and you hold for the full count of ten. No cheating."
He groans dramatically. "You drive a hard bargain, woman."
"Take it or leave it."
"I'll take it," he says immediately, and something in my chest loosens slightly. Because this is the Xavier I know—competitive, determined, using any advantage to get what he wants. Even ifwhat he wants right now is just kisses and the ability to move his toes.
"Alright," I say, moving back into position, placing both hands on his left foot this time. "Left leg. Push against my hand. Full extension. Hold for ten seconds. Ready?"
He takes a breath, centers himself, closes his eyes briefly. Then he pushes.
His foot moves—more than before, almost an inch of solid pressure—and holds steady. I count out loud, watching his face contort with effort and pain, watching sweat bead on his upper lip.
"Seven... eight... nine... ten," I announce. "That was perfect. Xavier, that was really perfect."
"Kiss," he demands immediately, opening his eyes. "Pay up."
I lean in and press my lips to his. It's meant to be quick, just a peck, a reward—but he catches the back of my neck with one hand and deepens it. His tongue sweeps into my mouth and I forget for a moment that we're supposed to be doing physical therapy. Forget everything except the taste of him—coffee and mint toothpaste—the feel of his hand in my hair, the way he kisses like he's claiming me, marking me as his.
When we break apart, we're both breathing hard.
"That was definitely worth the pain," he says, voice rough and low.
"Don't get used to it," I warn, but I'm smiling. Really smiling, genuinely, for the first time in days. "Two more to go."
"What's next?"
"Ankle rotations. Ten clockwise, ten counterclockwise. Each foot. And they have to be full circles, not half-assed attempts."
He groans again but gets into position, lying flat on his back. "This is going to take forever."
"Then you better get started."
What follows is slow, painful, punctuated by creative cursing and occasional threats to fire me as his physical therapist and hire someone who doesn't torture him. But he does every exercise properly, pushing through the pain because he's Xavier King and giving up isn't in his vocabulary, never has been. And I keep my end of the bargain, kissing him after each completed set until we're both a little breathless and definitely distracted.
Between exercises, while he rests and catches his breath, my mind wanders. Flashes of that night trying to break through the walls I've built.
Marcus backing me into the alley. Rain making everything slick. His hand on my throat?—
No. Focus. Stay present. Xavier needs you here.
But the memories are relentless, pushing against my consciousness like water against a dam.
The pipe. Cold metal. The weight of it. The swing. The sound?—
"Val?" Xavier's voice cuts through. "You okay? You look like you're going to be sick."
"I'm fine," I lie automatically, forcing a smile. "Just thinking about what's for dinner."
He doesn't look convinced but doesn't push. "Last one," I announce, checking the instruction sheet the hospital sent home with us. "Knee bends. Just three each leg, slow and controlled."
"Thank fuck," he mutters. "I thought you were going to make me run a marathon."
"Maybe tomorrow," I tease, trying to keep my voice light.
"Don't even joke about that. I'll have Asher murder you in your sleep."
"Noted."
