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“Breathe out when I press,” I said.

He did as I asked.

I worked slowly, finding each tight spot and applying pressure. His jaw clenched when I hit a particularly bad adhesion, and the muscle jumped under my hands, but he didn’t make a sound.

“You can tell me if it’s too much.”

His gaze stayed on the ceiling. “You’re doing your job. I’m not going to complain about you doing it right.”

I paused, my hands still pressed against his thigh.

Where was the cocky asshole from the picnic, the one who’d dismissed me with a few words and a careless gesture? This Brashe was quiet, cooperative, and committed to following every instruction I gave him.

“We’re going to test the range of motion now,” I said, stepping back. “Bend your knee.”

He did.

I positioned his leg, one hand on his thigh, the other on his hip, guiding him through a series of mobility checks.

I was too aware of everywhere we touched. The warmth of his body came through the compression fabric, and I had to remind myself I was doing a job. That he was just another patient. But my pulse refused to cooperate.

“Better,” he said after I guided his leg through a deep stretch.

“Than yesterday?”

“Than the last year.”

I stared at him. “You’ve been dealing with hip tightness for a year?”

“It doesn’t matter. We’re fixing it now.”

“It does matter.” I released his leg, stepping back. “You’ve been compensating for a year. That’s why the strain happened. Your body was already compromised.”

He didn’t confirm or deny.

I wanted to lecture him about playing through chronic tightness, about how athletes who ignored warning signs ended up with career-ending injuries. But the way he’d gone quiet, his jaw set in a stubborn line, told me it wouldn’t land the way I’d like.

“Sit up,” I said. “We’re doing strengthening work next.”

I grabbed a pillow from the cabinet and placed it between his knees while he sat on the edge of the table.

“Isometric adductor squeezes,” I said, demonstrating the movement. “You’re going to squeeze the pillow and hold for ten seconds. Slow, controlled pressure. No quick movement.”

He nodded.

I watched him position the pillow, then start the squeeze, but he went too fast.

I placed my hands on his knees, feeling the tension in the muscle. “Slower. Control the squeeze.”

He adjusted, his pace evening out.

He was listening. Actually trying. So far, I’d seen no ego about being corrected by someone only three-quarters his size.

We ran through three sets before I stepped back, pulling off my gloves.

“Ice again when you leave here,” I said. “Come back at four.”

He stood, testing his weight on the injured leg. “It feels better.”