Chapter 4
Riley
For once, I’m home before midnight. The sensation is so foreign I almost don’t know what to do with myself in my own living room.
My couch cushions still hold their shape, unused to supporting anything but my briefcase, and my wine glass feels strange in my hand—an indulgence instead of a sleep aid.
I sink deeper into the cushions, socked feet propped on the coffee table, letting the Cabernet warm my chest. Three sips in and my phone hasn’t buzzed once.
Maybe the universe finally got the memo that Dr. Riley Shepard deserves one goddamn night off.
I’ve changed into worn joggers and a faded Penn State t-shirt. My hair’s still damp from the shower, droplets occasionally sliding down my neck. It’s the most relaxed I’ve been in weeks.
The intercom buzzes, shattering my peaceful bubble.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter, setting down my glass. I trudge to the door, jabbing the intercom button. “Yes?”
No response, just the sound of someone shifting their weight. I hit the video button, and the small screen flickers to life.
Holy shit.
Jacob Mancini stands outside my building, head bowed, hood pulled up despite the mild evening. Even with his face partially shadowed, there’s no mistaking that build. He glances up at the camera, and the intensity in his eyes hits me straight in the chest.
I hesitate for exactly two seconds before pressing the button to buzz him in.
What the hell is he doing here? It’s been over three weeks since our midnight encounter at the gym. Three weeks of checking my appointment schedule, telling myself I wasn’t disappointed each time his name failed to appear. Three weeks of wondering if he’d thrown my card away after all.
I unlock my door and wait, listening to the elevator’s mechanical hum as it ascends.
When it dings and the doors slide open, Jacob steps out like a storm front, exuding dark energy.
He moves down the hallway with purpose, shoulders hunched, hands jammed into the pockets of a black hoodie that stretches tight across his chest.
“You found the place,” I say, because my brain apparently can’t produce anything more intelligent.
Jacob doesn’t respond. He brushes past me into my apartment, not waiting for an invitation. I close the door behind him, watching as he surveys my living space with sharp, darting glances. His restless energy fills the room, making my spacious condo feel suddenly cramped.
“Nice place,” he finally says, taking in the floor-to-ceiling windows, the sleek furniture, the art I paid an interior designer to select because I couldn’t be bothered. “Doctors must make bank.”
“It pays the bills.” I follow him as he drifts toward my living room. “Plus, I got a good deal. The building was still under construction when I bought in.”
Jacob nods absently, clearly not giving a shit about real estate. He looks like he’s vibrating out of his skin, fingers flexing and unflexing at his sides.
“You want something to drink?” I ask, gesturing to my abandoned wine glass. “I’ve got beer, water, or—”
“Wine’s good.” Before I can move, he picks up my glass and downs the remaining contents in one long swallow. The sight of his throat working as he drinks sends a jolt of something hot and electric down my spine.
“Sure, help yourself,” I say, but there’s no bite in it. Something about his obvious agitation has me feeling oddly at ease.
I take the empty glass from his hand, our fingers brushing briefly.
His skin is warm, almost fever-hot. I move toward the open-space kitchen, and Jacob follows, his presence a shadow at my back.
I pour more wine into the glass and hand it back to him, then reach for a clean glass from the cabinet for myself.
I only splash a small amount into my own—whatever’s brought Jacob Mancini to my door on a Thursday night, I need to keep my head clear for it.
We drink in silence. Jacob downs half his wine in one go while I take careful sips, watching him over the rim of my glass. His eyes roam around my kitchen, taking in details: the barely used appliances, the stack of medical journals on the counter, the singular plate drying in the rack.
“What happened, Jacob?” I finally ask when the silence stretches too thin.
His eyes snap to mine, dark and troubled. “I was sparring today. Some rookie. Kid couldn’t have been more than twenty-two.” He sets his glass down, rolling his shoulder unconsciously. “I should’ve put him down in thirty seconds. Instead, I almost lost.”
“Because of your shoulder,” I supply.
He nods once. “Tomorrow night, I’m fighting Reyes.” He says the name like it should mean something to me. When I don’t react, he adds, “Miguel Reyes. Undefeated in his last eight fights. Nicknamed ‘The Butcher.’”
“Charming.”
“I’m going to fucking lose if you don’t do something.”
I stare at him, trying to process what he’s asking. “What the hell do you expect me to do in less than twenty-four hours? I’m not a miracle worker, Jacob.”
“You’re the best, right? That’s what Renata told me.” His eyes bore into mine, challenge and plea wrapped into one. “Then prove it. Do something.”
“That’s ridiculous. I’m a doctor, not a magician.” I set my glass down, irritation flaring. “You need a proper diagnosis and treatment. A structured recovery plan, physical therapy—”
“I don’t have time for that shit.”
“Well, whose fault is that?” I snap. “I practically begged you to come in for an appointment. I gave you my card. My personal address. And you disappeared for over three weeks.”
“I’m here now.”
“A day before your fight.” I shake my head. “What exactly did you think would happen?”
Jacob looks at me then, really looks at me, and the naked desperation in his eyes knocks the wind out of me. This mountain of a man, all muscle and aggression and physical dominance, is staring at me like I hold all the answers to the universe. Like I’m his last hope.
There’s something deeply compelling about seeing someone so physically powerful appear so emotionally exposed. His eyes are wide, almost childlike in their pleading, at odds with the hard lines of his body.
Something shifts inside me, like a glacier that’s been dormant for centuries suddenly deciding to melt.
“Please,” he says, so quietly I almost miss it.
Fuck.
I rub a hand over my face, buying time while my professional ethics wage war with whatever this new feeling is. This urge to help him, to fix him, to be the one who gives him what he needs.
“Jacob, listen to me.” I make my voice as firm as possible. “As your doctor, I strongly advise you to cancel the fight. Your shoulder clearly isn’t healed, and continuing to fight will almost certainly make it worse.”
“Not an option.” His face hardens. “I’m facing Reyes tomorrow night. With or without your help.”
Those words hit like a gauntlet thrown down between us. With or without my help. He’s going to fight, regardless. The only question is whether he does it with whatever assistance I can provide, or with nothing at all.
I exhale slowly. “Follow me.” I turn and walk deeper into my condo, not looking back to see if he follows.
His heavy footsteps behind me are answer enough.
“What are you going to do?”
“Manual therapy. It won’t fix the underlying issue, but it might give you a better range of motion for tomorrow.” I pause, turning to face him. “But you need to understand something. This is a Band-Aid, not a cure. And I’m doing this against my better judgment.”
Jacob nods, solemn. “I understand.”
I can see from his face that he doesn’t, not really. He just wants to be fixed, to be battle-ready. The consequences are future Jacob’s problem.
“Can I shower first?” he asks suddenly. “I came straight from practice. I’m disgusting.”
The request is so unexpectedly considerate that it throws me. “Yeah, of course.” I point to a door off the hallway. “Guest bathroom’s there. Towels in the cabinet under the sink.”
“Thanks.” He hesitates, then adds, “I appreciate this. Really.”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak as he disappears into the bathroom. The door clicks shut, and a moment later I hear the water running.
Standing in the hallway, I’m frozen by the weight of what I’m about to do. This breaks every professional rule I’ve set for myself. No house calls for non-established patients. No last-minute interventions. No letting a patient’s need cloud my judgment.
But as I head to prepare my therapy room, I know I have no choice. If the difference is Jacob facing that fight tomorrow with or without my help, there’s only one option: to do my best for him, rules be damned.