The information lands hard, confirming what I’ve been suspecting. “Then she definitely doesn’t need complications,” I say.
“Or maybe she needs someone who actually gives a shit.” Dexstands, clapping me on the shoulder. “Just... don’t wait too long, okay? Life’s short and all that.”
He leaves me alone with thoughts I don’t want to examine. About Marnie carrying something heavy. About knowing exactly what that feels like. About Matty, who I didn’t save because I was on the road, because I missed the signs, because I thought I had more time.
I don’t think about Matty here. Can’t afford to. The guilt lives in a box I only open in the privacy of my house, when there’s no one around to see me fall apart over my kid brother who stopped answering my calls because depression is a liar and I should have known better.
But watching Marnie carry her own weight, the exhaustion and the phone calls she can’t answer and the way she holds herself together with visible effort, it’s like looking in a mirror from five years ago. When I was trying to be everything for Matty. Captain of my team and caretaker. Missing the signs because I was too busy trying to fix everything else.
I couldn’t save him. Couldn’t even see how bad it was until it was too late.
And now here’s Marnie, drowning in responsibility, and all I want is to help. To not fail someone again.
But that’s not fair to her. To make her carry my guilt too.
Marnie appears in the doorway of the weight room, tablet in hand, scanning the space until she finds me.
“Captain,” she says, all business. “You’re up.”
I follow her to the treatment room, aware of every single movement she makes. Of the way other guys’ eyes track her as we pass. Of the irrational urge to step closer, to make it clear she’s off-limits.
Which is insane. She’s not mine. She’s my physical therapist. She’s professional and competent and dealing with her own shit.
And I’m still noticing everything about her.
The treatment room smells like the menthol gel she uses and whatever vanilla lotion she wears. She gestures to the table and I pulloff my shirt, trying not to think about how her eyes follow the movement before she catches herself and looks away.
“How’s it feeling today?” she asks, washing her hands.
“Good. Better than good, actually.”
“Any pain with movement?”
“Minimal. More like awareness than pain.”
“That’s good progress.” She moves behind me, hands finding my shoulder, warm and steady against my skin. “We’ll start with soft tissue work today. You’re carrying a lot of tension through here.”
Her thumbs dig into muscle, finding knots I didn’t know existed. I bite back the sound that wants to escape, focusing on breathing through the discomfort.
Her hands move lower, working through my lats with firm pressure that borders on painful but somehow feels necessary.
“How’s your sleep?”
The question catches me off guard. “Fine.”
“Roman.” Her hands still. “I can feel the tension. You’re not sleeping.”
“I sleep enough.”
“That’s not the same as sleeping well.” She resumes her work, pressure more gentle now. “Stress manifests physically. Your body’s telling me you’re carrying something you’re not addressing.”
“You a mind reader now?”
“Bodies tell stories.” Her voice is matter-of-fact. “Yours says you’re used to carrying everything alone. That you think rest is weakness. That you’ve been holding yourself together through sheer stubbornness for longer than is sustainable.”
The accuracy of it steals my breath. I want to deny it, to deflect with sarcasm or redirect the conversation.
Instead I hear myself say, “Had to be. After my brother...”
