The treatment room is quiet this morning. When Mia's fingers have barely touched Elias's shoulder blade, she hears the faint shuffle of movement in the corridor.
Two of the ball staff, angled to catch the line of his back in the morning light.
Since the i********: post, there have been visitors. She's learned to close the blinds now—a habit she's developed without examining why it bothers her, because the answer to that question is inconvenient.
She reaches for the cupping set.
"Traditional sports therapy," she says, placing the first glass with precise suction against his trapezius. "Improves muscle elasticity. We haven't tried this yet."
Elias's gray-blue eyes flicker. He doesn't object.
"You're bruised." He's looking at her forearm—the purple bloom where she walked into a desk cor
