Riley
“Morning,” I said softly as I stepped into the therapy room.
Lucas looked up from where he was stretching on the mat. “Morning.”
That was it. No smirk. No joke. No comment about how I probably missed him overnight. No comment about the kiss. Nothing. It was like nothing ever happened between us.
I glanced at him, waiting for something more. Nothing came.
“Let’s get started,” I said, flipping open my clipboard and forcing my voice into that overly-professional tone I hadn’t used in weeks. “We’ll go through the flexibility series today. I’ll observe, then we’ll start with balance.”
“Okay,” he replied simply. He didn’t meet my eyes.
I crouched beside him, adjusting his knee carefully. “Straighten here. Don’t lean too far forward.”
“Got it,” he muttered.
The silence in the room was deafening.
Usually, he’d be teasing me by now, cracking jokes mid-lunge or complaining about how brutal my methods were. Today, nothing.
And I hated it.
Each minute dragged like a weight. I moved him through each drill, my instructions clipped, mechanical. I didn’t even realize my nails were digging into my own palm.
Lucas followed every command with robotic obedience. No questions. No comments. No pushback.
When the session ended, he stood up, towel slung over his shoulder. “Thanks.”
“See you tomorrow,” I said, not even sure if it was true anymore.
Later that night, I sat in my office, the glow of the desk lamp the only light in the room. I stared at the blinking cursor in my document: Lucas Rivera – Final Progress Report.
I typed, Mobility improved. Strength increasing. Next milestone: reintegration training.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard. I didn’t want to hit save.
There was a knock. The junior therapist—Kelsey—walked in with a nervous smile.
“Hey,” she said, clutching a small notepad. “You asked to brief me?”
I nodded, gesturing to the chair. “Lucas Rivera. You’ll be taking over next week.”
She sat, wide-eyed. “He’s… intense.”
“He can be difficult,” I said. “But he listens. Deep down. You just have to earn it.”
Kelsey nodded. “I’ll take care of him.”
I swallowed, forcing a smile. “Good. He deserves that.”
As soon as she left, I pressed save on the report and shut my laptop like it might burn me.
I walked through the quiet halls of the facility, each step echoing off the tile. The air smelled like antiseptic and something that reminded me of endings.
I passed the gym and paused near the window.
Lucas was there, alone, working the balance ropes. His movements were sharp, focused—but slower than usual.
He looked up.
Our eyes met.
I froze. My feet stayed rooted in place for one heartbeat. Two.
Then I turned and walked away.
Later that night, Zara sat cross-legged on my floor, folding one of my sweatshirts. “You sure you packed all your chargers? And your adapter? London voltage is weird.”
I laughed weakly. “Yeah. Everything’s in the tech bag.”
Zara looked at me, brows furrowed. “You okay?”
I stopped folding and just stared at the open suitcase. “No. But I will be.”
She didn’t say anything. She just passed me another shirt to roll.
I reached into my therapy drawer, pulling out the bands I’d used on Lucas. The same ones I’d introduced the first week. I held them for a moment before tucking them into the side pocket of my bag.
Then I saw it—folded at the bottom of my desk drawer.
The sketch.
The joint clinic logo he’d drawn. Our names side by side.
I picked it up, tracing the letters like it might disappear if I blinked.
Zara looked over. “You gonna bring that?”
I nodded slowly. “Yeah. Not because of him. Because it’s still my dream too.”
I slipped the paper into my journal, closing the cover tight.
Then I opened the drawer again. My passport stared back at me.
Crisp. New. Waiting.
I sat down on the edge of my bed, still holding the journal. My eyes wandered to the dark corner of my room. My heart clenched.
“You chose Madrid,” I whispered to no one.
I looked at the journal in my lap, the sketch inside. My name. My future.
“Now I choose London.”