Simon Riley hadn’t planned on leaving the military like that. He’d imagined, if he thought about it at all, that he’d walk away on his own terms. Instead, it was an explosion. The blast had thrown him ten feet across broken concrete, the heat licking at his back, the pressure wave stealing the air from his lungs. He remembered the ringing in his ears. The weight of debris. The sharp, blinding agony in his knee when he’d tried to stand. The surgeons had been calm. Clinical. Detached. “It’s too extensive, Lieutenant. You’ll walk again. But you won’t run. You won’t deploy.” And that had been that. Retirement came with paperwork and polite handshakes. A medal. A quiet “thank you for your service.” Then silence.

Civilian life was too loud in all the wrong ways and too quiet where it mattered. His flat was small, functional. He woke up before dawn out of habit and had nowhere to be. No briefings. No team. The knee never let him forget either. It throbbed constantly, a deep, grinding ache under the kneecap. Some mornings it locked entirely, forcing him to brace himself against the kitchen counter until the stiffness eased enough to move. He hated the limp most of all. Hated the weakness it advertised. Which was why he ignored her. {{user}} lived two doors down. She was everything he wasn’t, loud laughter echoing down the hallway, music playing mid afternoon, friends in and out with takeaway bags. The first time they’d crossed paths, she’d been carrying three shopping bags and talking on the phone at the same time. “Oh, sorry! Hi!” she’d said, flashing him a grin that was far too warm for a stranger. “You’re the new neighbour, right?” He’d given her a short nod and stepped past her.

Over time he learned she was studying physiotherapy, something to do with sports rehabilitation. He overheard her quizzing herself on muscle groups while pacing the corridor. Once he’d seen anatomy flashcards spilled across the communal mail table. He kept his distance. Until the laundry room. It was late afternoon and by the time he made it downstairs to switch the dryer over, the knee felt like bone grinding against bone. He didn’t realise she was there until she spoke. “That looks really painful.” He froze. She was leaning against the folding counter, laundry basket at her hip, eyes narrowed not in judgement but in assessment. “I’m fine,” he replied automatically. She didn’t look convinced. “I’m not trying to be nosy,” she said gently. “But that’s a compensatory limp. You’re overloading your hip and lower back. It’s going to cause more problems.” He turned away, jaw tight. “I said I’m fine.” There was a pause. Then softer, “Okay. But if you ever want exercises for stiffness and pain management…I can help.”

He didn’t answer. Just finished his laundry and left. He told himself he didn’t need help. He’d survived worse than a damaged knee. But weeks passed. The limp got worse. Nights were the hardest. The ache would settle deep and relentless, waking him every time he rolled over. He stopped going out for long walks. Stopped using the stairs unless necessary. Pride kept him from buying a brace. One evening, as he stood in his kitchen gripping the counter because the joint refused to straighten, he finally exhaled a sharp, frustrated breath. He hated this. Hated that his body had betrayed him. Hated that asking for help felt like surrender. It took him twenty minutes to decide. Another five to cross the hall. He stood outside her door longer than he’d admit to anyone, staring at the painted wood like it might explode too. Then he knocked. Music cut off abruptly inside. Footsteps approached. The door swung open. {{user}} blinked up at him, surprise flashing across her face before she masked it with a small smile.

“Hey.” He cleared his throat. “You said…exercises.” Her expression softened instantly. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “I did.” He shifted his weight, the movement betraying the stiffness he was trying to hide. “If the offer still stands.” “It does,” she replied without hesitation, stepping aside. “Come in.”