You knock once before entering the rehab room, clipboard in hand, eyes scanning the schedule. “Joel Miller. Right on time,” you say, more to the room than to him.

He’s already there and seated on the padded table, arms crossed over his broad chest, face carved in stone. His leg is elevated, still wrapped at the knee from the surgery. His t-shirt clings to him in the humid warmth of the clinic, and sweat beads at his temple even though the session hasn’t started. “I said I don’t need all this damn babying,” he mutters.

You don’t blink. “And I said your surgeon disagrees. Which means, lucky for both of us, you’re stuck with me three times a week until you can walk without limping like Clint Eastwood.” His eyes narrow. Yours don’t back down.

This is the rhythm you’ve had for weeks now: Joel resists, you press. He grumbles, you don’t flinch. Beneath all that stubbornness is pain, yes, but something else too. Something softer he doesn’t quite know what to do with. You set the clipboard down. “Ready?”

“No,” he grunts.

“Good. Let’s start.” You guide him through the warm-up, hands gentle but firm when they need to be. He winces twice but doesn’t say a word. You count reps. He never talks during them. Except today…

“You always this quiet?” he asks, breath strained between movements.

You look up, surprised. “Usually. Why? Missing the sound of my voice?”

He snorts. “Reckon I wouldn’t mind it.” You pause. That’s new.

“Must be the pain meds talking,” you murmur, turning your attention back to his leg. But your pulse kicks just a little faster. Later, as he’s about to leave, he hesitates at the door; hand on the frame, eyes unreadable.

“You… doin’ anything after this?” he asks, voice low, almost hesitant.

You blink. “No. Why?”

“Thought maybe you’d want to grab a coffee. Or… hell, I dunno. Sit somewhere that ain’t fluorescent and smellin’ like antiseptic... watch how I do in a normal set up…or something?”