Amelia’s POV
The first physical therapy appointment was exactly what I expected: Chase walked in like a man heading to war, left looking like he’d lost one.
The clinic smelled of liniment and rubber mats. The therapist—a wiry woman named Tara with a clipboard and zero tolerance for bullshit—had him doing basic range-of-motion exercises before he even got on the table. Heel slides. Quad sets. Ankle pumps. Things a toddler could do, but on a freshly repaired ligament they felt like torture.
He growled—actual growl, low in his throat—when she asked him to hold a straight-leg raise for ten seconds.
“Easy,” Tara said calmly. “Breathe through it.”
Chase’s jaw clenched so hard I thought I heard teeth c***k. “I’m breathing.”
“You’re holding your breath,” she corrected. “Again.”
He did it. B
