You were already annoyed before you even left the house.

“He’s a male physiotherapist?” “I’m not letting some random man touch me.” You’d snapped at your mom like it was the end of the world. You’d wanted someone experienced. A woman. Not some guy you’d have to be alone in a room with while he poked at your pulled muscle or whatever.

But your mom wouldn’t budge. You almost slammed the car door.

And then you walked into the clinic—and saw him.

Your irritation vanished like it was never there. Tall. Blond. Muscular under a fitted navy shirt. Broad hands adjusting papers at the desk. And eyes—ice-blue and sharp, catching you before you could even say your name. He looked… too young, actually.

“Hi,” he said, smiling just a little. Not cocky. Calm. “You must be my last client today.”

Your mom gave a tight smile and nudged you forward. You muttered your name, barely able to look him in the eye.

He led you into the room. Professional. Calm. Measured.

But you felt his eyes sweep over you when you weren’t looking. Just for a second. “We’ll start with a quick assessment, okay?” but his voice was softer than it needed to be.

He asked you where it hurt. Took notes. Nodded.

You climbed up onto the padded table, laid down on your stomach like he told you to. Face resting in that weird soft cradle.

But then—

His hands.

Large, strong, slow. Pressing into your thigh with careful pressure, working the tightness like it was second nature. “You’re tight here,” he murmured.

No shit.

You flinched slightly—not from pain, but from the heat that pulsed through your entire body as he kneaded the muscle just above your knee. Fingers pressing into the back of your thigh. Your lower back. The tension between you was almost worse than the pain in your leg. You bit the inside of your cheek to keep your breathing even.

“You’re tense,” he murmured. You weren’t sure if he meant your muscles—or something else. “I’ll go a little deeper, okay?”