Chapter 7

I stand outside his door for the umpteenth time, and as soon as Liza walks out, I grab her clipboard from her med cart.

"Hey," she barks, trying to take it back. "That's private information."

"I work here. Don't give me that HIPAA bullshit."

"You know, you could just go in and ask him how he's doing. You don't have to stalk him."

That word makes my body heat with awareness. "I'm not stalking him," I insist.

Her raised eyebrow says she thinks I'm full of shit. I am full of shit. I'm totally stalking him. I've already seen his x-rays and Tony's patient notes on his progress. Basically, he hasn't done jack shit in the way of therapy yet. But what I want to know isn't in his chart. I want to know how he's doing—mentally, emotionally. How he's holding up.

The last leg of my deployment felt like the longest I've ever served. There wasn't a single night I fell asleep without him on my mind, wondering how he was adjusting, how his leg had healed. I even wondered whether he ever thought of me.

No, I squashed those thoughts immediately. I had no business thinking thoughts like that. Rhett was my patient, however briefly, and I did my best to save his life. That's it. That's all there was to it. The fact he stayed with me, that I can't shake him from my mind? That's all on me, not him.

Liza glares at me with her hand on her hip. "Did you find what you're looking for?"

"No."

"That's because it's not in the file."

With a huff, I drop the chart on her cart and meet her accusing eyes. "How's he holding up?"

"He's not," she says bluntly. "He's miserable and depressed and he passes his time making animals out of brochures." Liza plucks a crane from her med cart and drops it in my hand.

Rhett made this? This is what he's been reduced to? A brave warrior who now folds paper to keep his mind from imploding? My heart bleeds for him. I know how much he's lost. Not just his career or his mobility, but his best friend. His entire life as he knew it is over. The problem is that he has nothing to replace it with. Not yet, at least.

"Go in there, talk to him," she urges for the hundredth time.

"He's not my patient."

"But is he your friend?" she asks.

No, he's not even my friend. Not really. He's just… someone I can't stop thinking about. Someone I connected with instantly. Someone I have no business asking after.

Instead, I say, "If you order from that Greek place for lunch, let me know. I'm in." And then I leave her standing there, staring after me as I walk away. Because that's all she's going to get from me, my lunch order. I know she's burning with curiosity about how I know Rhett and why I care so much. I certainly don't show that level of interest in any of my other patients beyond the progress they're making in my gym. So why Rhett?

Liza hasn't asked me outright yet, but she will eventually, and when she does? I have no idea what I'll say.

"That's it, push a little harder. Just a little more. You're almost there."

Rhett's grunts echo loudly in the silent room. They filter through the partially open door out into the hall where I'm standing, stalking him again.

"You can do it. Don't give up," Tony encourages.

His positivity and soft touch make my teeth grind together, and I can only imagine how it must make Rhett feel. I respect my colleague, but right now, I feel like his methods are shit. Rhett is a soldier. He's not used to being treated with kid gloves. Tony is doing him a disservice with his cheerleader act. If he were my patient, I'd… He's not your patient. You don't get to have an opinion about his recovery.

"Tomorrow, you start the hard work in the gym. We'll stand you up and see how much weight you can bear on your leg. Are you excited?" Tony asks.

"Fuckin' thrilled," Rhett deadpans, and I cover my snicker with my hand.

I love his thinly veiled sarcasm. If I can't get a patient to be excited about their recovery, I'll take anger as a close second favorite emotion. Anger means they still feel something, and I can turn it and twist it to motivate them, but I worry Rhett is becoming passive and disinterested, which scares me because that means he's given up. Disinterested means that you have to motivate them or make them angry to get them to start cooperating and caring again, and I just don't think Tony has the capability to do that with Rhett.

But I do. I can make him feel again. I can get him to care.

He's not your patient.

I'm sick and fucking tired of having to remind myself of that. With a deep sigh, I make myself step away from his door and get back to work.

The following day, when Tony rolls Rhett's wheelchair into the gym, I busy myself in the back corner, folding a stack of towels. With my ball cap pulled low over my eyes and my newly grown scruffy beard, Rhett doesn't recognize me. In fact, he never even looks my way.

Tony wheels him to the parallel bars, and Rhett grabs on with both hands, his face screwed tight with pain as he hoists himself to his feet. The cast on his left leg is gone. His x-rays show that his fractures have healed. His right leg is a fucking mess, but they did the best they could. It was a miracle they saved it at all. Today he wears a soft cast around it to allow for movement of his knee.

I peek sideways at him, stealing glances. His face is mottled red and dotted with a sheen of sweat. His mouth pulls into a tight line before he bites his bottom lip.

"I can't," he huffs, dropping into his chair.

"That's all right; you're doing great," Tony cheers.

My hands ball into fists.

"Let's try it again," he urges brightly.

Every muscle in my body tenses as I watch Rhett struggle to pull himself up again. This time, he hangs on for about a minute before collapsing in his chair.

Better .

Tony claps Rhett's shoulder. "You're doing fantastic!"

His voice has never bothered me before, so why does it sound like nails scraping across a chalkboard now?

"Let's try some leg extensions before we add some weight to it," Tony suggests.

It's not what I would choose. I would make him take a step or two before giving up. I would make him walk to me.

He's not your patient.

I've seen all I can take for today. I shelve the stack of folded towels in the linen closet and slip out of the gym without drawing his attention.

The following day, he's at it again, struggling to hold his weight as he grips the parallel bars for dear life. Rhett is dressed in gray sweats and a T-shirt with the army logo, but he's a mess. His hair has grown out long, and it's greasy. His face is covered in scruff, a lot like mine. Apparently, we've both given up.

Tony positions himself behind Rhett, and he grips his hips to hold him steady. "Take a step forward," he urges. Rhett struggles but moves his right leg forward, bearing weight on it. Tony closes the distance between them, his body brushing against Rhett's back. "Good, take another one. I believe in you, Marsh. You can do this."

A red haze clouds my vision, or maybe it's green. I'm fucking pissed that he has his hands on Rhett. Tony's just doing his job, but I don't like it. Not one fucking bit. I've never held him like that. I've never brought my body into close contact with his, close enough to feel the heat of his skin, close enough to smell him. I held his hand for hours in the darkness. I listened to the sound of his grief spill from his eyes, but I've never held him .

Tony helps him back to his chair, clapping him on the back with pride. "You did amazing! I'm so proud of you."

The clipboard slips from my hand, dropping to the ground with a clatter, and Rhett's head snaps up. His eyes focus on me. His jaw gapes in shock.

"Riggs?" I meet his wild-eyed gaze. "Fuck, Riggs!"

Fuck is right.

Rhett rolls his chair over to me, and then he engages the brake and braces his hands on the armrests, struggling to push to his feet.

You said you wanted a chance to put your hands on him. Well, here it is.

My hands rest on his waist, keeping him steady as he stands. And then his arms are around me, his slightly sour yet musky scent fills my nose, and I can feel the heat from his body, finally . He squeezes me tight, the stubble of his cheek abrasive against mine.

"How? Why are you… How?" Chuckling, I pull back to look at his shocked face. "You were over there and now…"

"And now I'm here."

"How?" he asks again, and I know I've blown his mind. He never thought he'd see me again. Did he care? Did he even spare me a passing thought?

Unlike him, I knew I would see him again. I knew he was a patient here at Womack, and that he still would be by the time I returned home. The anticipation of seeing him again gnawed at my gut for weeks. Worry, sympathy, and excitement—his reaction to seeing me now validated the ulcer I gave myself.

"Finished my deployment. Came home. I work as a physical therapist here."

"But in Afghanistan, you were my medic."

"I'm a combat medic in the Army reserves."

"No shit?" he says with an impressed smile.

Again, I snicker. I can't see his dimples beneath the layer of scruff covering his cheeks, which disappoints me to no end. I thought about them many nights as I lay in bed praying for sleep. Even with his unkempt hair and beard, he looks young, healthy, and gorgeous… when he smiles, at least. And I know for a fact, from Liza's reports, and my own stalking, this is the first time he's smiled in weeks.

Knowing that makes my heart beat faster. It shouldn't, but it does.

It's obvious that I have an effect on him, and I'm only slightly ashamed that I love it so much.

His leg starts to buckle, and he grabs on tighter around my neck. I tighten my hold on his waist, and my jaw tenses when I feel the sharp protrusion of his hip bones. He's lost so much weight.

I try to untangle his arms from my neck, although I'm loath to let him go. "Let's get you seated," I suggest.

"Wait," he insists, tightening his hold. The fingers of his left hand dig into my neck, but I don't mind. He holds on tight and salutes me with his right hand, standing as straight and stiff as his spine will allow.

"You don't have to salute me, soldier."

"Yeah, I do. You saved my life."

There's that lump again in my throat, making it difficult to swallow. "It was my honor."

He allows me to help him down into his chair, but he stares up at me with this ridiculous smile that reaches his eyes. He's looking at me like I'm the second coming of Christ or something, and I feel totally self-conscious because we're drawing the attention of others.

Tony saunters over. "Riggs, you didn't tell me you knew my patient. You've been home for weeks and haven't said a word."

I watch as the light dims from Rhett's bright eyes. Fucking motherfucker.

"You've been back for weeks?" Rhett asks.

He isn't smiling any longer. "Just over two weeks now."

"Did you… Did you know I was a patient here?"

Of course I knew. I signed off on his medical transport. I knew full well he was headed back to Womack. He can read my answer from the look on my face.

"How come you didn't come see me?"

"I—" clearing my throat, I try again, "I was busy settling back into my routine and I didn't want to take your focus from your recovery." All lies and empty excuses, which I know he sees right through.

"Well, I'm a multitasker. I can manage both you and my recovery. So don't be a stranger."

The wounded pride on his face tears at my heart. I can feel his disappointment in me, and I worry that he's going to turn it around on himself and take it personally. But of course it's fucking personal.

I stayed away because it felt too personal.

"Whatever you want, soldier. Maybe I'll stop by your room tomorrow, and we can fold paper together."

Fuck, as soon as the words are out of my mouth, I know I've given myself away. A satisfied smile spreads slowly over Rhett's face, and the look in his eyes changes to one of understanding. He knows I've been stalking him. Or at the very least, checking in on him.

"Sounds good. Bring a handful of brochures with you. I'll save you a cup of ice cream."