“I have enough trophies,” Blake said softly, caressing the top of Andre’s left hand. “I don’t have enough of you.”
He looked up at Doug. “File the paperwork. I’m taking the six months.”
Doug looked at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, a small, proud smile touched the corners of his mouth. “Alright,” Doug said, closing the folder. “I’ll call Gemma. We’ll draft a statement for the press. ‘Personal reasons.’ They’ll speculate, but they won’t know anything for sure.”
“Thank you, Doug,” Blake said.
When Doug left, the flat was quiet again.
Andre looked at Blake, his eyes shining with tears. “You are giving up so much for me.”
“I’m not giving up anything,” Blake said, leaning in and pressing a kiss to Andre’s mouth. “I’m exactly where I want to be.”
The physical therapy clinic was located in a nondescript brick building in Marylebone, its interior a sterile landscape of white walls, fluorescent lights, and the faint chemical tang of medical-grade cleaner.
For Andre, it was a torture chamber.
It was early July, eight weeks since the accident and the reality of the damage was now starkly visible. His right hand was a landscape of trauma — the skin tight and shiny over the swollen joints, the angry red scar runningdown the back of his hand a constant, visceral reminder of the metal pins holding his bones together.
He was sitting at a small, adjustable table, facing his therapist, a no-nonsense woman named Priya who possessed a surprising amount of upper body strength and absolutely no sympathy for his complaints.
Blake was sitting in a plastic chair in the corner of the room, a magazine open on his lap, though he hadn’t turned a page in twenty minutes.
“Alright, Andre,” Priya said, her voice brisk and professional. “Let’s see the extension.”
Andre placed his hand flat on the table. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and tried to lift his fingers off the surface.
The movement was agonizing. The tendons in his wrist screamed in protest, the scar tissue pulling tight across his knuckles. He managed to lift his index and middle fingers a fraction of an inch before the pain became a sharp, blinding spike that shot up his arm.
He gasped, his hand dropping back to the table, his shoulders slumping in defeat.
“Two millimeters,” Priya noted, writing something on her clipboard. “Better than yesterday.”
“It is nothing,” Andre said bitterly, his voice thick with frustration. “It has been two months. I should be able to hold a pen.”
“You suffered a severe crush injury, Andre,” Priya reminded him, her tone softening slightly. “The bones are healing, but the soft tissue damage is extensive. It takes time. Now, let’s work on the flexion.”
She reached across the table, taking his right hand in hers. She placed her thumb over his knuckles and began to gently, firmly push his fingers down toward his palm.
Andre hissed, his left hand gripping the edge of the table so tightly his fingers blanched from the pressure. The pain was intense, a deep, burning ache that made his eyes water.
“Breathe,” Blake said quietly from the corner.
Andre opened his eyes, looking across the room at Blake. Blake’s face was calm, his blue eyes steady and supportive. He wasn’t looking at the hand; he was looking at Andre’s face, holding his gaze, offering a silent, unwavering stream of support.
Andre focused on Blake’s eyes, forcing himself to take a slow, deep breath, letting the air out in a long, shaky exhale as Priya pushed his fingers further down.
“Good,” Priya said, holding the stretch for ten seconds before releasing the pressure. “Very good. The scar tissue is breaking down. We’ll do two more sets of ten.”
The next thirty minutes were a grueling, exhausting battle of wills. Andre fought against the pain, against the stiffness, against the overwhelming, paralyzing fear that his hand would never be the same. And through it all, Blake sat in the corner, a quiet, immovable presence, his voice a steady, calming anchor in the storm.
When the session was finally over, Andre was pale and sweating, his right hand throbbing with a dull, relentless ache.
Blake stood up, tossing the magazine onto the chair, and walked over to the table. He didn’t say anything. He simply reached out, took Andre’s uninjured left hand, and pulled him gently to his feet.
They walked out of the clinic and into the warm July afternoon.
“I hate her,” Andre muttered, leaning heavily against Blake as they walked toward the Underground station.
