Down until his chest grazes the floor. Up until his elbows lock. No pause at the top. No mercy at the bottom. The sweat drips from the tip of his nose, leaving dark, round spots on the hardwood floor. A constellation of effort.
I lean against the doorframe.
I should look away. I’m a doctor. I’ve seen bodies. I’ve seen anatomy in every conceivable state: broken, bleeding, healing, dead, young, old. A torso is just a cage for organs. Muscles are levers for moving bone.
But this isn’t anatomy. This is raw, masculine heat.
His deltoids bunch and release like coiled steel cables under the skin. I follow the sweat tracking down the deep channel of his spine, pooling in the fabric of his sweatpants. The play of light exposes the scars mapping his history, and my mind catalogs them the way it catalogs injury: which ones came from bullets, which ones from blades.
My coffee goes cold in my hands. I don’t care. I don’t drink it. I can’t leave. I’m rooted to the spot by a voyeurism that is illicit, dangerous, and completely necessary.
He shifts his weight.
He folds his right hand behind his back.
One-armed pushups. On the left side. The injured side.
My breath locks. I’ve watched him favor that shoulder for three days. The subtle grimace reaching for something on a high shelf. The way he guards it when putting on his jacket.
His face turns toward me, but his eyes squeeze shut. His expression contorts into a rictus of concentration or pain. A thick vein bulges in his temple, throbbing in time with his exertion. His teeth lock so tight the muscle jumps under the skin.
He falters.
His left anterior deltoid spasms: a visible, violent twitch under the skin, like a wire snapping taut. The muscle fails. The chain breaks.
He collapses.
He catches himself at the last instant with his right hand, slamming his palm against the floor to spare his face from the wood. He rolls onto his back, his lungs working hard, his left hand clamped over his shoulder.
A groan wrenches out of him. Low. Guttural. Pure, undiluted agony tearing through the quiet room.
I set my mug down. It clinks on the console table.
Boyd stiffens.
The reaction is instantaneous. Tactical. He sits up, straightening his back, dropping his hand from his shoulder as if the pain never happened. He turns to me, his face a blank mask, but his eyes run wild. Pupils blown. Chest rising and falling in jagged gasps.
“You’re awake.” His voice grinds out, breathless, wrecked. Rougher than usual.
“You’re hurting.”
“I’m training.”
“You’re punishing yourself.” I walk into the room. I don’t stop at the edge of the rug. I cross the line he drew between us. “I saw the spasm. Your rotator cuff is shot. The supraspinatus is impinged. Keep doing that, and you won’t lift your arm, let alone a weapon.”
I step closer.
I stand right over him. He smells of salt, sweat, and male aggression. Overwhelming. It’s the smell of a man pushing his body until it breaks because he doesn’t know how to exist in stillness.
“Sit still.”
“Doc...”
“Shut up.”
The command surprises both of us.
“I’ve treated gunshot victims in parking lots. I’ve stitched arteries in moving vehicles. I can handle a man with a sore shoulder. I’m a professional. Let me help.”
