SIX WEEKS WITH HIM

The Accident

The physiotherapy room smelled like antiseptic and old sweat.

I hated it. But it paid better than tutoring first-years at 2 a.m., and my rent wasn’t going to pay itself.

“Next patient,” Dr. Wanjiru called from her office.

I checked the file.

_Lucas Kimani. 22. Rugby captain. ACL tear, right knee. Estimated recovery: 6-8 weeks._

My pen slipped.

Lucas Kimani. The guy whose posters were still on the notice board from last month’s varsity cup. The guy who’d made me feel invisible for three years.

“Problem, Kip?” Dr. Wanjiru peeked out.

“No,” I said quickly. “No problem.”

She gave me a look. “He’s difficult. Don’t let him walk over you. You’re the expert here.”

I wasn’t sure I believed that. But I nodded anyway.

The door swung open before I could brace myself.

Lucas Kimani walked in on crutches, jaw tight, eyes scanning the room like it had personally offended him. He was taller than I remembered. Broader too. Rugby had done that to him.

He stopped when he saw me.

“You’re my new physio?” His voice was low, disbelieving.

“Kip Mutua,” I said, setting the file down. “Fourth year, physiotherapy. I’ll have you walking without a limp in six weeks.”

He leaned on the crutches, studying me like I was a problem he didn’t want to solve. “You? You look like you’ll break if I sneeze.”

The words hit, but not as hard as they would’ve a year ago.

I’d heard worse in high school.

“I don’t need to be bigger than you to fix your knee,” I said evenly. “I just need you to follow instructions.”

His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile.

“Fine,” he said. “Do your worst.”

I gestured to the treatment bed. “Lie down. I need to check the swelling.”

He hesitated, then lowered himself slowly. Pain flashed across his face for half a second before he masked it.

Good. He was human under all that arrogance.

I knelt beside the bed, pulling on gloves. My fingers brushed his skin as I rolled up his tracksuit leg. The knee was swollen, angry red around the scar from surgery.

“Does this hurt?” I pressed gently.

Lucas hissed through his teeth. “No.”

“Liar,” I muttered before I could stop myself.

His eyes snapped to mine. For a second, something unreadable passed through them. Surprise? Annoyance?

“You have a mouth on you,” he said.

“So do you,” I replied, keeping my hands steady. “Try bending it to 90 degrees.”

He gritted his teeth and moved. Not far. The muscle was stiff, the joint protesting.

“Stop,” I said before he could push too far. “You’ll tear the stitches.”

“I’m fine,” he bit out.

“You’re not,” I said. “And if you keep pretending you are, you’ll be on crutches for three months instead of six weeks.”

Silence.

Then he let his leg drop, exhaling hard.

“Why do you care?” he asked suddenly.

I blinked. “Because it’s my job.”

“No,” he said. “You could’ve faked it. Signed me off, taken the pay. Most students would.”

I finished wrapping the ice pack around his knee, avoiding his eyes.

“Because my little brother had the same surgery last year,” I said quietly. “The physio he had didn’t care. Now he limps.”

Lucas went still.

For the first time, he really looked at me. Not as ‘the quiet kid from physio class’. Not as ‘that guy’. Just… me.

“You have a brother?” he asked.

“Two,” I said. “He’s the youngest.”

He didn’t say anything for a long time. The only sound was the hum of the AC and the ice crackling against his skin.

When he spoke again, his voice was different. Quieter.

“Do it right, then,” he said. “Six weeks. No excuses.”

I stood, peeling off the gloves.

“No promises,” I said. “But I’ll try.”

As I walked him to the door, he paused.

“Hey, Kip.”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

It was awkward. Stiff. But it was the first time he’d said my name without sarcasm.

I nodded. “Same time tomorrow.”

He limped out, and I leaned against the door, letting out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.

I’d spent three years avoiding him. Watching from the sidelines while he played, laughed, lived a life I couldn’t touch.

Now he was mine for six weeks.

And I had no idea what to do with that.

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