SIX WEEKS WITH HIM

Too close

The physio room smelled like antiseptic and old sweat.

Day three, and I was already used to Lucas being late.

He limped in at 4:07 PM, hoodie pulled low, jaw tight. Didn’t even say hi. Just dropped onto the bed and stared at the ceiling like it had offended him.

“Rough day?” I asked, keeping my tone neutral as I washed my hands.

“Lost to UoN,” he said. “Again.”

Ah. That explained it. Varsity rugby rivalry.

“ACL won’t heal faster if you glare at it,” I said, pulling on gloves. “Let’s check your range.”

He didn’t argue. He just lay back and let me work.

Progress was happening. He could bend to 90 degrees now without stopping. Still stiff, still painful, but his leg wasn’t dead weight anymore.

“Good,” I said, moving his ankle gently. “You’re responding well. If this keeps up, we can start partial weight-bearing next week.”

“Don’t jinx it.”

I smiled without meaning to. “Superstitious, Kimani?”

“Shut up and do your job.”

But there was no heat in it. Just habit.

---

The problem came during the quad set.

“Contract your thigh,” I said, pressing lightly above his knee. “Hold for five seconds. One… two…”

He was doing fine until his leg spasmed.

“s**t—”

His knee jerked up, and his hand shot out to catch himself.

It landed on my wrist.

Skin on skin.

We both froze.

His hand was warm, calloused from the rugby ball. Mine was smaller, but I could feel the tremor in his fingers.

For two seconds, neither of us moved.

Then he pulled back like I’d burned him.

“Sorry,” he muttered, sitting up too fast. Pain flashed across his face, and he gritted his teeth to stop a sound from coming out.

“Don’t move,” I said automatically, shifting to support his leg. “You’ll make it worse.”

“I said sorry.”

“I heard you.” I kept my voice steady, even though my wrist still felt hot where he’d touched me. “Breathe. Let’s get you lying back down.”

He didn’t look at me. Just let me guide him down, jaw clenched.

“Day three,” I said lightly, trying to break the tension. “First injury of the rehab.”

He didn’t laugh.

We finished the session in silence.

When I told him he was done for the day, he stood up too quickly, grabbed his crutches, and headed for the door.

“Kip.”

I stopped packing up.

“Thanks,” he said, not turning around. “For not making it weird.”

Then he was gone.

---

I didn’t sleep well that night.

Not because of the touch. Well, not only because of the touch.

It was the look on his face after. Like he’d been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to. Like he hated that his body reacted to mine.

I knew that look.

I’d seen it in the mirror freshman year, when I first realized I wasn’t into girls the way I was supposed to be.

Denial. Anger. Shame.

Lucas Kimani was the captain of the rugby team. The guy who dated the head cheerleader. The guy whose whole identity was built on being untouchable, untouchable, and straight.

And I was the guy he’d accidentally grabbed in a moment of weakness.

Great.

---

Next morning, I showed up early again. Old habit.

He was already there.

He sat on the bed, crutches leaned against the wall, wearing shorts for the first time.

My eyes caught on his thigh before I could stop them. The muscle was defined even with the swelling down.

“Morning,” I said, keeping my eyes on his face.

“Morning.” His voice was rough, like he hadn’t slept either.

We started the session like nothing happened.

Until I had to reposition his leg.

“Roll onto your side,” I said.

He hesitated, then did it slowly. The movement pulled his shorts up, exposing the line of his hip.

I looked away fast and focused on his knee.

“Kip.”

“Yeah?”

“Do you hate me?”

The question caught me off guard.

I set the ice pack down and sat on the stool across from him.

“Why would I hate you?”

“Because I’m an ass,” he said bluntly. “Because I’ve been rude since day one. Because yesterday I grabbed you and acted like you were the problem.”

I studied him. He wasn’t meeting my eyes.

“No,” I said. “I don’t hate you.”

“Then why are you always so careful around me?”

“Because you’re my patient,” I said. “And because you act like I’m going to bite you if you get too close.”

He was quiet for a long time.

Then, barely above a whisper: “What if I don’t want you to be careful?”

My stomach dropped.

I told myself I misheard.

“Lucas,” I said carefully. “We’re not friends. We’re patient and physio. That’s it.”

“I know,” he said. “That’s why I said it.”

He finally looked at me.

And the wall was down.

No arrogance. No anger. Just a guy who was tired of pretending.

“I don’t know what this is,” he said. “But I know it’s not just rehab. Not for me.”

I swallowed hard.

“Lucas—”

“Don’t say it,” he cut me off. “Don’t say the contract thing. Don’t say it’s unprofessional. I know.”

I did know.

If Dr. Onyango found out I’d let things get personal, I’d lose the placement. Maybe worse.

But looking at him, I realized something worse than losing the placement.

I realized I didn’t want to stop seeing him.

“Two more weeks,” I said quietly. “We finish the contract. Then we figure it out.”

He nodded once.

“Two weeks,” he echoed.

And for the first time since this started, it didn’t feel like a countdown to the end.

It felt like a deadline.

---