Chapter 12 What He Saw
TWELVE
WHAT HE SAW
DECLAN
Troy showed up at the rehab center around noon.
I was working with Ralph on resistance training when I saw him walk through the front door. He looked better than he had a few days ago. The bruises on his face were fading from purple to yellow-green. He moved easier, like his ribs had stopped screaming with every breath.
He scanned the space, eyes tracking over the equipment, the clients, the layout.
My hands slipped on the resistance band I was adjusting.
Ralph's knee jerked forward with the sudden release of tension.
“Shit, sorry.” I grabbed the band again, repositioned it. “Hold that position. Three more reps. Slow and controlled.”
Ralph grimaced but did as instructed. Good kid. Listened well. Actually wanted to heal properly instead of rushing back and making things worse.
I kept half my attention on him and half on Troy, who was standing near the front desk looking uncomfortable in a way that said he didn't know what to do with himself.
Why the fuck was he here?
He hadn't mentioned coming by. Hadn't texted. Had barely spoken to me in three days beyond the necessary logistics about groceries and who was using the shower. And now he was standing in my workspace looking like he regretted every decision that had led to this moment.
Mara appeared from her office. Smiled at him, said words I couldn't hear over the gym noise. Troy responded with a nod, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, body language screaming that he didn't want to be here but had come anyway.
I couldn't figure out what the hell he was doing here or why he'd bothered showing up if he wasn't going to acknowledge me beyond that one brief look.
“Declan?” Ralph's voice pulled me back. “That good?”
I looked down. He'd finished the reps, was waiting for my assessment, and I'd completely missed the last two because I'd been staring at Troy like a man who'd forgotten how to do his job.
“Yeah. Good form. Take a break and hydrate.” I handed him a water bottle, tried to focus on the work I was being paid to do instead of the man standing across the room who couldn't even look at me properly.
Ralph headed toward the water station. I grabbed my clipboard, made notes on his progress that I'd have to redo later because my handwriting looked like I'd had a stroke.
Rafael appeared from the back office a and walked straight toward Troy with that easy smile he wore like armor.
Troy's expression shifted. Confusion first. Then something harder. His gaze cut to me across the room, sharp and accusing, before snapping back to Rafael.
He hadn't expected to find Rafael here. Hadn't known Rafael and I worked together. And from the way his jaw tightened as Rafael reached him, from the way his hands came out of his pockets in a gesture that looked casual but was anything but, he was putting pieces together he didn't like.
Rafael said something. Troy responded. They talked, and I couldn't hear what they were saying over the equipment noise and the music playing through the overhead speakers, but I could see the shift in Troy's body language.
The way he leaned in slightly when Rafael spoke.
The way his mouth curved in an expression that might have been amusement.
The jealousy that hit me was immediate and irrational and so fucking strong I had to set the clipboard down before I snapped the pen in half.
There was nothing to be jealous of. Rafael was just being welcoming. Just doing what he always did, making people feel comfortable, being the warm and engaging version of human that I'd never been good at.
I turned away. Forced myself to focus on the next client. Hockey player named Jensen, twenty-four, recovering from a torn ACL. Surgery six weeks ago. Starting the next phase of his rehab protocol.
“Ready to work?” I asked, keeping my voice level.
“Yeah. Let's do it.” Jensen was all nervous energy and eagerness, the way young athletes got when they were desperate to prove the injury hadn't broken them.
I walked him through the exercises. Leg presses at reduced weight. Balance work on the BOSU ball. Range of motion drills that made him wince but push through anyway.
My hands knew what to do. Knew where to press, how to adjust, when to push and when to back off. Muscle memory from years of doing this.
But my attention kept snagging on Troy and Rafael across the room.
They'd moved to the seating area near the windows. Both of them sitting now, conversation flowing easy. Rafael said words and Troy laughed. Actually laughed, head tipping back slightly, guard dropping in a way I hadn't seen since he'd come home.
The sound carried across the space and landed in my chest like a punch I hadn't seen coming.
I wanted that. Wanted to be the one making him laugh. Wanted him to look at me the way he was looking at Rafael, like he was actually enjoying himself instead of counting down the minutes until he could leave my presence.
“Declan? You with me?”
I looked down. Jensen was staring at me with concern, leg still extended in the stretch position I'd put him in and apparently forgotten about.
Fuck. I was going to hurt someone through sheer negligence if I didn't get my head straight.
“Yeah. Sorry. Hold that for ten more seconds, then release.” I checked my watch, trying to look professional instead of distracted by my stepson sitting twenty feet away having the time of his life with someone else. “How's the pain level?”
“Four out of ten. Manageable.”
“Good. That's where we want it.”
I worked through the rest of his session on autopilot. My body went through the motions while my mind stayed stuck on Troy and Rafael, on the easy way they talked, on the fact that Troy had come here but hadn't said a word to me. Hadn't even tried.
What was he looking for? Proof that I was fine after the attack? Proof that I had a life outside the house? Proof that Rafael existed, that I'd been telling the truth about having a business partner?
Or was he just avoiding being alone with me, using Rafael as a buffer, showing up here because it was the one place he knew I couldn't corner him for a conversation?
By the time I finished with Jensen, my ribs were aching from the fight two nights ago. The cut above my eye throbbed. My hands felt stiff and swollen from gripping equipment too hard, from white-knuckling my way through sessions while Troy sat across the room not looking at me.
I'd pushed too hard today. Should have taken more time to heal. Should have let Mara handle the heavy clients while I did paperwork and administrative shit.
But sitting still meant thinking. Thinking meant spiraling. Spiraling meant ending up exactly where I was now, watching Troy smile at someone else and hating myself for caring.
The afternoon crawled by. I worked with three more clients, each session blurring into the next.
Troy and Rafael stayed in the seating area, talking, their conversation apparently endless.
At some point Troy pulled out his phone, showed Rafael a screen I couldn't see.
Rafael laughed, said words that made Troy's mouth curve again.
I dropped a weight plate.
The crash echoed through the gym loud enough that everyone looked over. Including Troy.
Our eyes met across the space.
His expression shifted into worry so fast it was almost comical. Eyebrows pulled together, mouth going tight, body language screaming concern before he remembered he wasn't supposed to care and forced his face back to neutral.
Too late. I'd seen it.
He'd been watching me. Tracking my movements the same way I'd been tracking his. Noticing when I dropped things, when I favored my left side, when I moved like my ribs were still healing.
The realization settled in my chest in a way I didn't know what to do with.
He'd come here to check on me. Not to see Rafael. Not to tour the facility. To make sure I was okay after getting jumped in an alley, because apparently Troy gave a shit even when he was pretending he didn't.
I picked up the weight plate and reracked it. Turned back to my client without acknowledging Troy's concern, without giving him the satisfaction of knowing I'd noticed.
At some point Mara appeared at my elbow with coffee.
“Jenkins is complaining about his knee again,” she said.
“He always complains about his knee.”
“I know. But this time he wants you to look at it. Says it's different.” She handed me the cup. “I told him you're not a doctor, but he doesn't give a shit.”
“Of course he doesn't.” I took the coffee, drank it black and bitter. Let the heat ground me. “What time's he coming in?”
“Thursday. Three o'clock.”
“Great. Can't wait to hear about how his knee is falling apart for the hundredth time.”
Mara snorted. “You love it and you know it. Makes you feel useful.”
“Makes me feel like a babysitter.”
“Same thing with this crowd.” She glanced over at the seating area where Troy and Rafael were still deep in conversation. “Your stepson and Rafael are getting along pretty well.”
“Yeah. I noticed.”
“Rafael's good people. Talks a lot, but good people.”
“I know.”
She studied me for a second with eyes that saw too much. “You want me to send them home? I can make up a reason to close early.”
“No. It's fine.”
“Liar. But fine.” She walked off, leaving me alone with the coffee and the sound of Troy laughing at whatever the hell Rafael had just said.
The last client of the day was a runner rehabbing a stress fracture. Easy work. Mostly education and form correction. I finished the session, made my notes, and started cleaning up my station while trying not to watch Troy out of the corner of my eye.
Failed spectacularly at that too.
He was looking at me now. Not even pretending to pay attention to Rafael anymore. Just watching me move through the space, cataloging the way I cleaned equipment, the way I organized resistance bands, the way I existed in a world he'd never seen me in.
The weight of his attention made my skin feel too tight.