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My hands stayed on his hips, and I could feel his heartbeat through his skin. Or maybe that was mine. Either way, the pool room felt smaller than it had five minutes ago. Hotter too.

“The restriction is still there,” I said, keeping my voice neutral. “But it’s better than it was.”

“That’s good, right?”

“It’s progress.”

“Enough to get me back for game three?”

“We’ll see.” I stepped back and grabbed a resistance band from the deck.

“We’re doing standing adductor work now,” I said, wading back to him. “This is going to be uncomfortable.”

“Most things with you are.”

I shot him a look.

One corner of his mouth lifted despite his effort to suppress it. “I meant the treatment.”

“Sure you did.”

I positioned the band around his thigh, adjusting the tension, and had to step close to check the angle. Near enough that when I leaned in, my face ended up near his chest.

As I instructed him through the movements, I swore I could feel his heartbeat speed up.

“Am I doing this right?” he asked. The tip of his ridged tongue slipped out to trace across his right tusk.

I did my best not to swoon, because the question felt loaded with more than physical therapy.

“Yes,” I strangled out.

I stepped back and made myself check my tablet, even though I knew exactly what the next exercise was.

If only my hands would stop shaking.

“Next, you’re going to stand on your left leg,” I said.

He shifted his weight, lifting his right leg slightly.

“Higher.”

He lifted it more, and his balance wobbled.

I reached out to steady him.

He caught himself, but his frustration showed in the set of his jaw.

“I used to be able to hold the butterfly position for two full minutes,” he said quietly.

“You will again.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do. Because you’re doing the work.”

He met my eyes, and the air between us changed. I had clinical words for an elevated heart rate, shallow breathing, and dilated pupils. I didn’t have clinical words for this.

For a long moment, neither of us moved.