I help position him on his back, hands braced on either side of his body for stability. "Okay, right leg first. Bend your knee, bring it toward your chest as far as you can. I'll help guide it but you need to do the actual work. The muscles need to fire or this doesn't help."
He nods, face already set in lines of concentration and anticipation of pain.
The first rep is brutal. I can see it in the way every muscle in his body tenses, the way his breath comes in sharp, pained gasps that sound too loud in the quiet room. But he gets his knee bent maybe thirty degrees—not much, but more than yesterday—before the pain becomes too much.
"That's one," I say encouragingly, helping him straighten the leg back out. "Two more. You've got this."
"This is torture," he grits out, breathing hard.
"This is healing."
"Same thing."
But he does the second rep, then the third, each one marginally better than the last. Then the left leg, which is slightly better—he can feel more on that side, the doctor said, which means the nerve damage is less severe. By the time he finishes all six reps, he's shaking with exhaustion and his face is so pale I'm genuinely worried he might pass out on this mat.
"Done," I announce, sitting back on my heels, wiping my own forehead. "You did it. All exercises completed properly. I'm proud of you."
"Good," he breathes, eyes closed, chest heaving. "Now help me back to the chair before I pass out on this mat and you have to drag me."
"Not yet," I say. "You've got three kisses to collect first. Rules are rules."
Despite the pain, despite the exhaustion, his eyes open and light up with something warm. "Come here then."
I lean over him and he pulls me down with more strength than he should have, kissing me with a desperation that has nothing to do with physical therapy and everything to do with needing to feel alive, to feel something other than pain and helplessness.
The first kiss is fierce, claiming, almost bruising. The second is slower, deeper, more tender—his tongue exploring my mouth like he has all the time in the world. The third is soft, almost reverent, like he's memorizing the shape of my lips, the taste of me.
When we finally break apart, he's looking at me with those dark eyes that see too much, that always see too much.
"I like this," he says quietly, one hand coming up to cup my face.
"Like what?"
"How sweet you're being. How patient. How gentle." He pauses, thumb stroking my cheekbone. "But I can tell something's up. Something beyond just worry about me."
My stomach drops like I've been shoved off a cliff. "I don't know what you mean."
"Don't lie to me, Val." His voice is gentle but firm, no room for deflection. "You've been different since I woke up. Jumpy. Secretive. Won't meet anyone's eyes for too long. And I know Zay's noticed too—he cornered me yesterday asking if you'd said anything to me about what happened at the Vipers."
"I'm fine," I insist, but it sounds hollow even to my own ears, transparently false.
"You're not," he counters softly. "And that's okay—you don't have to be fine all the time. But you do have to be honest with me. With all of us."
I look away, staring at the wall instead of his face. I can't look at him. Can't see the trust in his eyes when I'm carrying this secret.
I might have killed your brother. I see flashes of it—blood, a body, a pipe in my hands. But I don't remember. I don't know if it's real or if I'm losing my mind.
"It's complicated," I manage.
"Most things worth talking about are."
"I just—" I stop, swallow hard around the lump in my throat. "I need to find the right way to say it. The right words so you'll understand and not?—"
"Not what? Hate you? Leave you?" He pulls my face back toward him, makes me look at him. "That's not going to happen, Val."
You don't know that. You don't know what I might have done.
"Everything," I whisper. "The right words for everything. What happened. Why I've been—like this."
