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The pool area was empty and quiet except for the low hum of the filtration system.

Beneath my sweatpants and t-shirt, I wore a navy-blue one-piece that was both practical and suggested I was here to work.

The resistance bands went on the deck first, then the foam flotation equipment we’d use for supported range-of-motion work. I double-checked the water temperature and pulled up Brashe’s treatment plan on my tablet.

Water therapy was a standard modality. The buoyancy reduced the load on the joint, allowed earlier mobility work, and would give us a controlled environment⁠—

I was reciting a textbook to myself. That’s how freaked out I was.

We were soon going to be in the water together, both of us wearing less clothing. Our bodies wet. Pressing together.

My fingers fumbled with the tablet screen. I had to unlock it twice before it registered my thumbprint.

I’d reread his last text four times before getting out of my car this morning. Just a photo of his hip, properly iced, the instruction sheet visible in the frame. Timer set for twenty minutes.

Seventeen times. That was how many times I’d reread the note he’d left on the coffee he’d brought me. Thanks for not giving up on me. —B

I’d thrown the note away yesterday. Then dug it back out of the trash this morning and stuffed it into my purse.

This was a problem.

I hadn’t given up on him because he’d stopped giving me reasons to. He did every exercise as prescribed. He asked questions that showed he was actually listening. He texted me at 9:41 PM every single night with proof he’d done his evening ice protocol, as if he was afraid I’d think he’d skipped it.

And when Mikael had made another comment about my “hands-on approach” in the break room, Brashe had gone so still I’d felt it from across the room. He hadn’t said anything or made a scene. Just stood up and left.

Mikael had gaped at Brashe’s back and shut up, hopefully forever.

I pulled off my sweatpants and t-shirt, folded them, and dropped them onto the bench, and stared at my reflection in the pool’s surface.

This would be fine. I’d done pool therapy dozens of times during my fellowship, though never with a patient I couldn’t stop thinking about.

The door opened at 7:00 AM, and Brashe walked in wearing athletic pants and a team t-shirt. His gaze found me, and he went very still.

“Morning,” he said.

“Morning.” My voice came out steadier than I felt. “You can change in the locker room if you want, or just⁠—”

He pulled off his shirt in one smooth motion.

I kept my face blank and hoped he couldn’t hear my heartbeat from across the room.

I’d seen dozens of athletes without shirts. This was no different.

Except it was, because I could see almost all of him now. The bulk of his shoulders and chest, the muscle definition that came from a lifetime of explosive movement. And scars. He had a long one across his ribs, another on his shoulder, and smaller ones scattered across his torso like a map of every hit he’d taken and kept playing through.

He pushed his pants down, revealing black board shorts underneath, and I forced my attention to the resistance bands.

“You can swim, right?” I asked, my voice much too breathless.

“I’m an orc, not a rock.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I can swim.” He paused at the pool edge, his mouth twitching. “But I’m better at stopping pucks.”

“Good thing there are no pucks in here.”

“Yet.”