Chase’s POV
The physical therapist’s office smelled like sweat and menthol. Same rubber mats, same mirrored wall that threw my reflection back at me every session like an accusation. Tara had me on the table again—knee elevated, ice already strapped on, her hands pressing gently but firmly around the joint.
“Swelling’s back,” she said, not looking up. “We pushed too hard last week. Back to passive range only for seven days. No weight-bearing.”
I stared at the ceiling tiles. Counted the perforations. Didn’t answer.
She waited. Tara always waited.
“Pain level?” she asked.
“Eight,” I lied.
She raised an eyebrow. “Try again.”
“Nine,” I muttered.
She nodded once. “We’ll adjust the protocol. Ice every two hours. Elevation when you’re sitting. No shortcuts.”
No shortcuts.
The words fol
