“Wine’s good.” Before I can move, he picks up my glass and downs the remaining contents in one long swallow. The sight of his throat working as he drinks sends a jolt of something hot and electric down my spine.
“Sure, help yourself,” I say, but there’s no bite in it. Something about his obvious agitation has me feeling oddly at ease.
I take the empty glass from his hand, our fingers brushing briefly. His skin is warm, almost fever-hot. I move toward the open-space kitchen, and Jacob follows, his presence a shadow at my back. I pour more wine into the glass and hand it back to him, then reach for a clean glass from the cabinet for myself. I only splash a small amount into my own—whatever’s brought Jacob Mancini to my door on a Thursday night, I need to keep my head clear for it.
We drink in silence. Jacob downs half his wine in one go while I take careful sips, watching him over the rim of my glass. His eyes roam around my kitchen, taking in details: the barely used appliances, the stack of medical journals on the counter, the singular plate drying in the rack.
“What happened, Jacob?” I finally ask when the silence stretches too thin.
His eyes snap to mine, dark and troubled. “I was sparring today. Some rookie. Kid couldn’t have been more than twenty-two.” He sets his glass down, rolling his shoulder unconsciously.“I should’ve put him down in thirty seconds. Instead, I almost lost.”
“Because of your shoulder,” I supply.
He nods once. “Tomorrow night, I’m fighting Reyes.” He says the name like it should mean something to me. When I don’t react, he adds, “Miguel Reyes. Undefeated in his last eight fights. Nicknamed ‘The Butcher.’”
“Charming.”
“I’m going to fucking lose if you don’t do something.”
I stare at him, trying to process what he’s asking. “What the hell do you expect me to do in less than twenty-four hours? I’m not a miracle worker, Jacob.”
“You’re the best, right? That’s what Renata told me.” His eyes bore into mine, challenge and plea wrapped into one. “Then prove it. Do something.”
“That’s ridiculous. I’m a doctor, not a magician.” I set my glass down, irritation flaring. “You need a proper diagnosis and treatment. A structured recovery plan, physical therapy—”
“I don’t have time for that shit.”
“Well, whose fault is that?” I snap. “I practically begged you to come in for an appointment. I gave you my card. My personal address. And you disappeared for over three weeks.”
“I’m here now.”
“A day before your fight.” I shake my head. “What exactly did you think would happen?”
Jacob looks at me then, really looks at me, and the naked desperation in his eyes knocks the wind out of me. This mountain of a man, all muscle and aggression and physicaldominance, is staring at me like I hold all the answers to the universe. Like I’m his last hope.
There’s something deeply compelling about seeing someone so physically powerful appear so emotionally exposed. His eyes are wide, almost childlike in their pleading, at odds with the hard lines of his body.
Something shifts inside me, like a glacier that’s been dormant for centuries suddenly deciding to melt.
“Please,” he says, so quietly I almost miss it.
Fuck.
I rub a hand over my face, buying time while my professional ethics wage war with whatever this new feeling is. This urge to help him, to fix him, to be the one who gives him what he needs.
“Jacob, listen to me.” I make my voice as firm as possible. “As your doctor, I strongly advise you to cancel the fight. Your shoulder clearly isn’t healed, and continuing to fight will almost certainly make it worse.”
“Not an option.” His face hardens. “I’m facing Reyes tomorrow night. With or without your help.”
Those words hit like a gauntlet thrown down between us. With or without my help. He’s going to fight, regardless. The only question is whether he does it with whatever assistance I can provide, or with nothing at all.
I exhale slowly. “Follow me.” I turn and walk deeper into my condo, not looking back to see if he follows.
His heavy footsteps behind me are answer enough.
“What are you going to do?”
“Manual therapy. It won’t fix the underlying issue, but it might give you a better range of motion for tomorrow.” I pause, turning to face him. “But you need to understand something. This is a Band-Aid, not a cure. And I’m doing this against my better judgment.”