13. Liliana
13
LILIANA
When I walk into the clinic a few days later, I’m surprised to be pulled into my boss’s office.
“So,” Fran starts, taking a seat and gesturing for me to do the same. “How’s the therapy going with Roman?”
Thank God, I don’t blush easily because my first reaction to her question is sheer panic. Which is stupid because I haven’t done anything to be panicked about.
“Good,” I squeak out. I clear my throat and try again. “I mean, slow, but good. Why?”
Fran waves me off. “No reason. He’s just a high-profile client—and a tough one, at that. This is more so me checking on you.”
I frown, not liking that label for Roman. “He’s not tough , he’s just…” I search for the right word. “He can’t find the right reason,” I say after a moment.
Fran cocks her head, studying me. “What do you mean by that?”
I release a heavy breath. “I mean, a lot of our patients are just trying to rehab an injury. So their end goals are obvious. And the athletes…even if they won’t progress their career, their goal is to get back to playing. At whatever capacity. But Roman… He’ll never fight again. It might be a miracle if he even walks again. And…” I swallow roughly as I meet Fran’s eyes, and I wonder if she can see the pain in my heart. “I think he thinks he’s useless without those things.”
Fran hums thoughtfully as she mulls over my assessment. “His file said he wasn’t seeing a psychologist when he was admitted here. Do you know if he’s started talking to someone since you started treatment?”
I shake my head, too nervous to admit that I think I might be the closest thing Roman has to a therapist.
“See if you can nudge him to see someone, if he isn’t already,” Fran says. “I’d be surprised if he wasn’t, but you never know. If what you’re saying is true, he, of all people, needs to be talking to someone.” She glances at her watch. “Beyond that, how’s the physical therapy going? Is he improving?”
I debate how to answer before saying honestly, “Slowly, but yes. Since he’s seen so many therapists, I started a lot of things from scratch. But…yes, he’s making progress.”
Fran gives me a pleased nod. “Good. I had a feeling I made the right call putting him with you, but I’m glad to hear his progress is proving it. And he’s been treating you okay? You know I won’t tolerate him being disrespectful.”
A memory of one of Roman’s daily glares flashes through my thoughts. “He’s been the perfect student.”
Another nod at that. “Good. If that changes, just let me know. Say the word, and I’ll transfer him to someone else.”
I force down the flame of possessiveness that flickers through my chest at the thought. “Thank you, but I don’t think that will be necessary,” I say with a forced smile.
“Alright then,” Fran says, standing from her chair and opening the office door for me. “Keep up the good work, Lily.”
When I leave her office and head downstairs for my appointment with Roman, my heart is still beating powerfully. I knew I had grown protective of Roman when he first started to let me in, and I knew I enjoyed his company even before that, but feeling the full weight of my emotions for him when confronted by it is a whole different story. I didn’t realize how much I’ve started to care for him.
And as I walk into the gym to find Roman shirtless and sweaty, the kind of feelings I’m developing become that much harder to ignore.
My mouth immediately goes dry at the sight before me. Roman is still sitting in his wheelchair, but right now, he’s using it as an exercise weight instead of a mobility tool. Because he’s currently strapped in and working on pull-ups at the pull-up bar.
I watch in slack-jawed amazement as he pulls himself up once, twice, five times just in the time I’m standing here. His skin glistens with sweat, the shine making his muscles the only thing I can look at. Even the chain around his neck, the one I’ve been curious about ever since I realized Roman hides it under his shirts, isn’t enough to pull my attention away.
I knew wheelchair users often have impressive upper body muscles from having to push themselves around all day, but I never could have pictured Roman’s back and arms, even in my wildest fantasies. He’s shredded . I don’t know if he just has a naturally muscular build, or if he actually works them out, but either way, this vision of Roman is something that is going to stick with me for a long, long time.
When he finally maxes out his reps and instead hangs on the bar in a hold, I realize I need to make my presence known. I have to swallow twice— twice —before I can get my voice to work. “W-what are you doing?”
Roman lets go of the bar and lands on the carpet with a muffled crash. Spinning his wheelchair around, he faces me and says simply, “Pull-ups.”
I feel a bead of sweat run down between my shoulder blades underneath my scrubs. “Um…why?” Then I shake my head to clear some of the haze from my brain. “And why are you shirtless?”
He’s reaching for his shirt before my question is even finished. I feel a flash of disappointment as he pulls his t-shirt over his head, and I take that as a clear sign I need to get my shit together. Training my eyes on his face, I refuse to let them drift again.
“Sorry,” he says—though he doesn’t sound like he means it. “Ever since showers—and laundry—became a hassle, I try to limit how much I sweat. I just wanted to see how many I could do before we got started.”
Curious, I can’t help asking, “And how many did you do?”
Roman wipes his brow and says nonchalantly, “Ten. Not as many as I thought I could.”
I gape at him. “ Ten is not that many?”
“I used to be able to get thirty plus,” he says with a shrug.
“I’m assuming that’s without the forty-pound wheelchair,” I say dryly.
Another shrug. “I lost that much in muscle, so it evens out.”
I throw my hands up in the air with a huff. “You are so annoying when you’re negative, I swear.”
Roman quirks an eyebrow, an arrogant smirk tugging at his lips. “Interesting. You didn’t seem annoyed with me a minute ago.” When I frown in confusion, he jerks his head sideways. “I could see you watching me in the mirror.”
My cheeks burn when I catch his meaning. “I…I d-don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Is that how you want to play it?” Roman asks, his grin shameless. “That’s fine; we can pretend like nothing happened.”
I channel my embarrassment into a glare. “Let’s just…get started with your session.”
Roman’s grin doesn’t lose any wattage. “Sure, Doc. Whatever you want.”
He rolls over to the treatment table, and as he pulls himself up onto it, I swear there’s a pep to his movements.
It takes me busying myself with gathering some of our usual equipment to tamp down on my embarrassment over Roman catching me basically checking him out. But by the time I wrap the blood pressure cuff around his arm and realize he’s still smug as hell, I manage a grumbled, “If I had known stroking your ego was going to put you in such a good mood, I would’ve done it weeks ago.”
When I glance up at him, Roman’s face is closer than I expect it to be. “You don’t have to stroke my ego to put me in a good mood, Liliana,” he says in a low voice. One that sends a shiver down my spine.
Swallowing roughly, I force myself to respond. “What else would put you in a good mood, Roman?”
Something flashes in his eyes, too quick for me to read. But then he plasters a clearly mocking grin on his face as he says, “Why, your charming personality, of course.”
I blink, then let out a long-suffering—and dramatic—sigh as I take his wrist. “I’m going to remind you of that next time you complain about my methods. Now shush, I have to count.”
It’s impossible to ignore Roman’s pleased expression as I finish checking his vitals, though Lord knows I try. I can’t get the vision of him doing shirtless pull-ups out of my head. Because of the still-sweaty muscles, yes, but also because I’m now realizing he has way more tattoos than I thought. His usual t-shirt and shorts attire obviously revealed on day one that he has two full tattoo sleeves, but now I know most of his chest and back are covered, too.
By the time we start with our usual stretches, I’m too curious not to broach the subject. I keep my eyes on his legs as I say casually, “You’ve gotten a lot of tattoos since the night we met.”
When Roman stiffens at my question, there’s nothing flirtatious in the air between us anymore. I’ve touched on something sensitive.
But he gives me a stiff nod, which gives me enough of a green light to ask, “Did you have any two years ago? Or these are all new?”
A few seconds tick by. Then, “I had one back then.”
I hum in thought as we move to the next stretch, debating how far I want to take my questions when so much of my job is keeping him comfortable. But something is telling me the tattoos are part of his post-injury psyche.
In the end, I ask the only question I want answered.
“So…what’s the reason for all the ink?”
Again, he hesitates. But after a moment, he says simply, “I wanted to feel something.”
My eyes shoot up to his face with a frown. “What do you mean?”
He shrugs. “After the accident, I got hyper fixated on sensation. I’d try to trick myself into believing I could feel my legs again. When that didn’t work, I started to focus on sensations I could feel. Namely, in my upper body.” His eyes meet mine. “The pain of a tattoo became addicting.”
Oh. I never thought of it that way.
“I was fully intending to tattoo my legs in the spots I got sensation back, but…” He exhales, and it sounds dejected. “I don’t know, I guess I started feeling guilty about the money. I spent way too much on the ink because even though I never had specific tattoos in mind, I realized I preferred the more detailed styles.”
“No kidding,” I murmur, my focus dropping down to the beautifully complex image on his arm. Roman’s entire right arm has a Roman theme, everything from a gladiator to the statue of a god. The way the images are woven together in black and white…it’s incredible.
Without thinking, my fingers trace over the sword on his forearm. “It’s beautiful,” I say quietly. “It must’ve taken forever.”
When I’m met with silence, my gaze darts back to Roman’s face. He’s studying me, watching me admire the art on his skin.
“You have any tattoos, Doc?” he asks after a moment.
I let out an awkward laugh as I straighten. “Me? No. I’d be a total baby.”
Roman’s lip quirks. “So, you’ll jump out of a plane, but a little tattoo is too scary?”
I shrug as I grab a resistance band for us. “That sounds completely logical to me.”
Roman’s chuckle has me relaxing, and I manage a small smile.
“Whatever you say, Doc.”