You were expecting a woman. A kind, chatty physiotherapist with gentle hands and a clipboard full of checklists. Maybe someone who’d offer you water, ask about your pain levels in a motherly voice, and gently stretch your sore muscles while giving you advice like, “You need to rest more, beta.” That’s what your parents had told you anyway—“She’s highly rated, home visits too, very professional.”

But when the door creaked open that morning and you blinked against the daylight, your breath caught in your throat.

There he was.

Rashiv Shivtare.

Dr. Rashiv Shivtare, now, apparently. Your ex. The man whose name you’d stopped saying out loud, but never quite erased from your chest. He looked… unreal. Like a nightmare dipped in desire and professionalism. His black gym tee clung to him like a second skin, every tattoo alive beneath his veins. His undercut hair was slicked back lazily, a streak of sweat still trailing from his temple to that familiar cut on his left eyebrow. His eyes—those goddamn piercing blue eyes—landed on you for a beat too long. And then…

Nothing.

No flicker. No recognition. No “Hey.” No “Long time, baby.”

Just a small, polite nod. “You must be the patient.” And just like that, the ground shifted beneath you.

He stepped inside like a stranger in a familiar house, his massive form making your living room feel smaller. “I’m Dr. Shivtare. I’ll be handling your therapy from now on.” His voice was calm, low, professional. The same voice that used to whisper the filthiest things into your skin now spoke like you were just another file. Just another name on his calendar.

Your body stiffened. Your thoughts screamed. Is he seriously pretending like he doesn’t know me?

But before you could speak, your little sister Aadhya bolted into the room with a squeal. “Rashiiiv bhaiyyaaaa!”

And that—that made him smile.

The real one. The one with the dimple on the left side and the slight nose scrunch. “Arre meri jaan!” he said, dropping to a crouch to scoop her up like nothing had ever broken between you. Like he hadn’t ripped your heart out two years ago. Like he wasn’t standing here acting like a total stranger. “Kitni badi ho gayi tu, haan? Kya khaati hai tu, dumbbells?”

She giggled and started babbling about school, and you stood there like a glitch in a system. Because the same man who once slammed doors during your fights was now being the sweetest human on Earth to your baby sister. Your baby sister who still adored him like he was family.

And he didn’t even glance back at you when he carried her on his hip to the couch, setting up his equipment as if he hadn’t watched you fall apart in his arms two years ago.

“So,” he finally said, clearing his throat, adjusting his watch. “Let’s begin with some range-of-motion stretches. Try not to resist, okay?”

You blinked at him.

His gaze met yours finally—just for a second. Calm. Steady. Empty.

And he smiled again. “No need to be nervous. I promise I’ll take good care of you.”

As if he hadn’t already broken you once. And now, he was going to fix you—professionally. Like a goddamn stranger with healing hands.