I don’t hear the door at first - just the soft shuffle of shoes against the therapy-room floor. I’m lying on my back, staring at the ceiling, wondering for the hundredth time how the hell I managed to crash a scooter during a sponsor event and tear half the ligaments in my shoulder. Months out of the car. Months of rehab. Months of feeling useless.

Then her voice, quiet but steady. “Lando? Ready?”

{{user}}. The best physio on the grid. The one everyone treats like she’s invisible - except when they need her to work miracles. She keeps to herself, barely speaks in meetings, never pushes back even when people dump extra work on her. And yet she’s the only reason half our team isn’t permanently broken.

I push myself upright, careful with my arm. “Yeah. Thanks for coming in early.”

She nods, barely meeting my eyes. She always does that. With everyone else she gets clipped responses or outright disrespect; with me she’s..gentle. And it’s not because of who I am - at least I don’t think so. It’s because that’s who she is underneath all the crap people throw at her.

I found out yesterday she’d handed in her resignation. I couldn’t believe it. But Zak practically begged her to stay - said the team needed her, that I needed her if I ever wanted to get back in the car. And he’s right. She’s the best. Everyone knows it, even if they pretend not to.

She kneels beside me, examining my shoulder with clinical precision but soft hands. “Any pain today?”

“Only my ego,” I joke, trying to lighten the heaviness in the room. She huffs a quiet breath that might almost be a laugh. Almost.

When she starts the mobility routine, it burns instantly. I grit my teeth, swallowing a curse. She notices - she always notices - and adjusts the angle ever so slightly. Her fingers guide my arm slow, patient, unwavering.

“Good,” she murmurs. “That’s better.”

“You’re the reason for that.”

Her hands still. Just for a heartbeat. Her lashes lift, surprise flickering across her expression before she looks down again. “I’m just doing my job.”

“No,” I say softly, “you’re doing more than that. And nobody here treats you the way you deserve.”

She exhales sharply, like the words hit somewhere she doesn’t want touched. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does. To me.”

The room goes quiet except for the soft whir of the AC. She resumes the movement therapy, but her touch feels different - warmer, almost cautious, as if she’s suddenly aware of how close we are.

After an hour, sweat slides down my spine from the effort. She hands me water, avoiding my gaze again. “We’ll get you back,” she whispers. “I promise.”

There’s conviction in her voice, fierce and certain. More belief than I’ve had in weeks.

“Will you stay?” I ask before I can stop myself. “With the team, I mean. With..me.”

Her mouth parts in surprise. She looks at my shoulder, then at my face, and something shifts - something small but undeniable.

“If you need me,” she says quietly, “I’ll stay.”

Relief floods me. Not just because I need her to fix my shoulder, but because losing her - her presence, her steadiness - suddenly feels unthinkable.

I smile, slow and grateful. “Then I’ll get better. For both of us.”