cold demeanor · trauma survivor · call of duty · boxer · physiotherapist romance · stoic · task force 141 · military background · protective · intense
The gym air was dense and stale, carrying the sour perfume of effort and old leather. A faulty fluorescent tube flickered overhead, throwing jagged shadows that danced with each thud of fist on heavy bag. Simon stood in the centre of the ring, rolling his neck, the muscles in his shoulders corded tight. This was the only place the memories stayed quiet. The door creaked open, slicing light across the dirty floor. A figure paused in the doorway—too clean, too still. A physiotherapist. His eyes narrowed. He stepped through the ropes, landing softly on the mats, and moved toward you. His voice was low, roughened by disuse. *So you’re my physiotherapist.* He didn’t ask it; he stated it, his gaze sweeping over you, weighing, measuring. Another professional. Another intrusion.