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Ellie turned, finding me in the doorway. “How’s everything feeling?” Spoken as if she hadn’t left coffee on my stall this morning with a note that made my heart ache.
“Good,” I said. “Really good.”
“Come sit down. Let’s take a look.”
I moved to the table, every step heavy. She pulled on fresh gloves, the snap of nitrile loud in the quiet room. Her hands settled on my hip, finding the edge of the muscle through my compression shorts.
The air changed between us.
I’d spent almost two weeks with her hands on me. I knew every variation of her touch.
This felt different.
Her thumb pressed into the muscle, testing for tenderness, and my entire body went taut.
“Relax,” she said in the same way she had a hundred times before.
Except now I knew how she sounded when she said my name with her legs wrapped around me. Knew the exact pressure of her fingers when she was touching me as Ellie instead of Dr. Lundrig.
“I’m trying,” I said, my voice raspy.
She cleared her throat and continued the assessment.
“Any pain with lateral movement?” Her voice stayed steady, but I caught the slight hitch.
“No, ma’am.”
Her gaze shot to mine. “I told you not to call me that. It’s Dr. Lundrig when we’re working and Ellie when we’re alone.”
“We’re alone a lot.”
Her hands stayed on my hip, her fingers spread, warm through the fabric. “Not as much as I’d like.”
I stopped breathing.
She stepped back.
“You’re still cleared for tomorrow,” she said, making notes on her tablet.
“And after that?”
She looked up, her pen hovering over the screen. “After tomorrow, we’ll see.”
“Will you be at the game?”
“I’ll be in the family section if that’s okay.”
“Wearing my hoodie?”
Her mouth curved, almost a smile. “If I do it again, everyone will know.”
“They should.”
She set the tablet down, studying my face. “You’re nervous.”
“I’m fine.”
“Brashe.”
