19. Chapter 19
Quinn
The barn looks the same as it did yesterday. That's the part I can't get past.
The morning light cuts across the treatment table in the same familiar stripes.
The chalkboard reads WeekTen. Day Five. Ahead of schedule, words I wrote an hour ago with a steady hand I didn't quite feel.
My phone sits heavy in my pocket with the confirmation that Reyes's office processed my withdrawal.
That I'm still Cade's physical therapist. That I chose to stay.
I chose a lot of things yesterday.
Five weeks, now only four. That's what we agreed to. Four more weeks left of sessions and documentation and the distance I need to maintain, and then…everything.
Everything. The word catches in my chest every time I think it.
I hear his footsteps on the path. He appears in the doorway wearing his compression sleeve and a flannel shirt, and for a moment neither of us speaks.
The space between the door and the treatment table has never felt so charged.
"Good morning." His voice is careful. Measured. Testing the line we drew yesterday to see if it holds in daylight.
"Good morning." I gesture to the table. "Sleeve off. Let's see where we are."
He crosses to the table and strips off the flannel, then works the compression sleeve down his forearm with practiced ease. I watch his hands, efficient and practiced, and push the memory of yesterday aside.
I can be clinical. I've been clinical for weeks.
"Any pain overnight?" I pull on gloves because the barrier feels necessary.
"Nothing sharp. The usual low ache that wakes me around three." He settles on the table, arm extended. "Tylenol helped."
I take his elbow and begin the assessment. His skin is warm under my fingers even through the latex. UCL. Medial epicondyle. Muscle memory takes over.
"I'm going to move you through flexion. Tell me when it changes."
I guide his arm slowly, watching his face. The fine lines around his eyes that deepen when he's concentrating. His jaw staying relaxed even as I push past ninety degrees.
"There," he says at one hundred five. "Level one. Maybe one and a half."
I mark the number. Four degrees better than his last session. The math continues to exceed every conservative projection I built.
"Grip strength next."
He wraps his hand around the dynamometer and squeezes. The readout climbs until it hits a number that makes me double-check the screen.
"That's your best yet." I write it down. "You're further along than I expected at this point."
"I have a good therapist."
I look up. He's watching me with something careful in his expression, testing the line without crossing it.
"You have good tissue response," I correct. "And a compliant attitude. The protocol works when patients follow it."
"Is that what we're calling it now? Compliant?"
The question hangs between us. I snap the band on my wrist as I process, a reflex I cannot seem to break around him.
"On the table. Supine. We're doing resistance work."
He lies back without argument. I attach the blue band to his forearm and guide him through the familiar sequence. Pronation. Supination. Wrist extension. The same movements we've done over forty times, except nothing about this morning feels routine.
I count his reps aloud because it gives me something to do with my mouth besides think about yesterday.
"Fifteen. Sixteen. Keep that angle. Seventeen."
"Quinn." My name in his voice. Low enough that it won't carry beyond the barn walls.
"Eighteen. Nineteen. You're dropping your elbow."
"I'm not dropping my elbow."
"You're compensating. I can see the lateral movement." I adjust his arm, fingers firm on his wrist. "Again."
He holds my gaze while he completes the rep. Heat flickers in his expression. He doesn't bother to hide it.
"Am I compensating now?"
"You're distracted."
"Yeah." The word comes out rough. "I am."
I let go of his wrist and step back, putting the width of the treatment table between us. The distance feels thin as paper.
"Four more reps. Then we're doing mobility."
He finishes the set without speaking, but I feel his attention tracking me as I move around the space. Gathering equipment. Checking notes. Doing anything that keeps my hands busy and my eyes off his face.
"Sit up. Shoulder external rotation next."
He swings his legs over the side of the table, and for a moment our knees almost touch. I don't move away fast enough, and neither does he.
"Quinn." That low register again. "Yesterday. In the barn."
"We agreed. We still have time on the protocol."
"I know what we agreed." He reaches out, not quite touching me, his hand hovering near my hip. "I just need to know it was real. That you're not going to spend the next several days convincing yourself it wasn't."
I stare at his hand. The distance between his palm and my body. A breath of space that feels like a decision.
"It was real."
His fingers close the gap, resting briefly on my hip before falling away. The touch lasts two seconds. Maybe three. Long enough to anchor us both.
"Okay." He exhales. "Then I can wait."
I stand there for a second longer than I need to.
I pick up the resistance band and wrap it around his wrist, movements automatic. His palm is warm through my gloves. Him pulling back before I had to ask.
"External rotation. Twenty reps."
He starts the exercise, and I watch his form with the same attention I always give. Except now I also notice the flex of muscle in his forearm. The concentration lines between his brows. His chest rising and falling with controlled breath.
I'm counting down the days already.
The session continues with clinical precision. I move him through every exercise on the protocol, document every metric, ask every standard question. His answers come easily. Pain scales. Sleep quality. Concerns. His numbers are excellent. His progress is undeniable.
"You're on track for early clearance," I say as he pulls his flannel back on. "Another week of this trajectory and we might be looking at a shortened timeline."
"Would that change the other timeline?"
I look at him sharply. He's buttoning the flannel, watching me with something that is almost a smile.
"If I get cleared early, does our other timeline clear too?"
"Our timeline isn't about your elbow."
"I know." He finishes the last button. "It's about you being sure."
"It's about the ethics policy. About not giving Kristen anything else to—"
"Quinn." He stands, and suddenly we're closer than I intended. "I know what it's about. I'm asking if you need the full time, or if you already know."
I can't answer that. Not honestly. Not when he's standing close enough that I can smell soap and cold morning air on him. Not when his hand is coming up, slow enough that I could stop him, to brush a strand of hair behind my ear.
"I filed the session notes yesterday." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "All the documentation from this week. Everything is in order."
"That's not an answer."
"That's the only answer I have right now."
His thumb traces the curve of my ear before his hand drops. The touch was brief, barely there, but I feel it like a brand.
"Then I'll wait until you have a different one."
He heads for the barn door, and I watch him go. His stride is easy. Unhurried. Like he has all the time in the world.
"Cade."
He stops and turns.
I shouldn't say what I'm about to say. It violates every rule I've built for myself over years of careful reconstruction. But the words are already forming, already pushing past the careful distance I've wrapped around this morning.
"I already know."
His expression shifts. Opens.
"Then why wait?"
"Because I need to prove I can do this right." I press my palm flat against the treatment table, grounding myself. "I need to prove that I can want something and not let it compromise everything I've built. I need to prove that this time is different."
"Different from him."
"Different from what I became after him. Someone who couldn't trust anyone. Someone who filed transfer requests at the first sign of risk." I meet his eyes. "I withdrew it. The request. You were right. I was running."
"I know." He takes one step back toward me. "Reyes's office called me this morning. Something about making sure the patient was informed of any changes to clinical assignment."
"And what did you tell them?"
"That I was grateful my therapist had decided to see this through." Another step. "That I trusted her judgment completely."
The barn feels smaller. The space between us shrinking with every word.
"You should go," I say. "Noah's probably waiting."
"Noah's in the south pasture. He'll be there all morning." But he doesn't move closer. Doesn't push. Just stands at the edge of what I'm willing to give right now.
"Lunch is at noon. Paige is bringing something from town."
"I'll be there."
He leaves without touching me again, and I stand in the empty barn for a long time after. The chalkboard numbers blur as I stare at them.
Four more weeks suddenly feels like forever…and not long enough.
I pick up my phone and text Paige: "How early is too early for wine?"
The response comes in seconds: "It's 10 AM."
"So that's a no?"
"That's a 'what happened and why aren't you telling me in person?'"
I look at the door where Cade disappeared. At the treatment table where I touched his arm through latex gloves and pretended it meant nothing.
"His numbers are better than projected," I type. "Might be looking at early clearance."
"That's not what I asked."
I close my eyes. Then open them.
"I know what I want," I type. "That's the problem."
Paige's response takes longer this time. When it arrives, it's just three words:
"Is it though?"