He asked. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” She kept her face innocent, just passing through. Zire studied her for a long moment.
His dark eyes traveled over her face, searching for something. Berlin felt heat rising to her cheeks under his scrutiny.
That thing you said. He finally spoke about Gordon caring. He paused. You weren’t entirely wrong.
Was that a compliment? Don’t push your luck. He wheeled past her, but just before turning the corner, he glanced back.
Their eyes met. Something passed between them. Something electric and unspoken. Then he was gone.
And Berlin stood in the hallway, her heart pounding for reasons she didn’t want to examine too closely.
Over the following weeks, something unexpected happened. Berlin started spending more time with Zire. It began with physical therapy.
She had taught herself basic rehabilitation techniques from medical books over the years. Another skill picked up from her invisible life with the thorns.
One evening, she appeared at Zire’s door with a proposal. I’ve been reading about rehabilitation, she said.
There are exercises that could maintain your muscle mass, prevent atrophy, maybe even. My doctors tried everything.
Zire didn’t look up from his laptop. My legs don’t work. End of story. Your doctor spent 15 minutes with you between golf games.
Berlin walked in uninvited. I’m talking about actually trying every day consistently. You’re not a doctor.
No, I’m your wife. The words felt strange. And I’m not giving up on you, even if you’ve given up on yourself.
Zire finally looked at her. His gaze traveled slowly from her face down to her hands as she knelt before him.
Hands that were already reaching for his leg, ready to work. Something flickered in his expression when her palm made contact with his knee.
She inhaled sharply at the searing heat from his skin, even with the layer of cloth between it and her palm.
She looked up at him from her kneeling position. “Give me a chance,” she pleaded softly, adding when he remained motionless, just boring holes into her face.
“Please, one week,” he said quietly, turning his gaze back to his laptop. “Prove this isn’t a waste of time.”
Berlin smiled. “Deal! The first session was a disaster. Zire complained constantly. The stretches hurt.
The movements were pointless. Berlin didn’t know what she was doing. “Are you always this dramatic?”
Berlin asked, manipulating his right leg through a range of motion exercise. “Are you always this annoying?”
“Only with patients who refused to cooperate.” Their eyes met, held. Berlin became suddenly aware of how close she was to him.
Her hands on his leg, his dark eyes watching her every movement, that abnormal heat of his skin through the fabric of his pants.
She looked away quickly, her cheeks flushing. “Focus,” she muttered, more to herself than to him.
“On what?” His voice had dropped lower, rougher. Berlin didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer because she was terrified of what she might say.
By the third session, Zire had stopped complaining. By the fifth, he was actually cooperating.
And by the seventh, something miraculous happened. Berlin was massaging his calf, working on the deep tissue when Zire suddenly went rigid.
Stop. Berlin froze. Did I hurt you? No. His voice was strange, breathless. I felt that.
Felt what? Your hands on my leg. He stared at his own limb like it belonged to a stranger.
I felt pressure. Warmth. Berlin’s heart leaped. Zier, that’s incredible. That means it means nothing.
He pulled away, his expression shuddtering. Phantom sensation happens all the time. Or it means the nerves aren’t as damaged as the doctors thought.
The doctors said, “The doctors don’t know everything. Erlin grabbed his wheelchair, forcing him to look at her.
You felt something after months of nothing. That’s not random. That’s progress. Their faces were inches apart now.
Berlin could see the flexcks of gold in his dark eyes. Could feel his breath warm against her skin.
Could smell that intoxicating cologne that made her head spin. For a long moment, neither of them moved.
Then Zire’s gaze dropped to her lips. Just for a second, but Berlin caught it.
Her breath hitched. “Same time tomorrow,” she managed, her voice barely a whisper. Zire’s jaw tightened.
He leaned back, putting distance between them. “Same time tomorrow,” he agreed. Berlin fled to her room and spent the next hour trying to calm her racing heart.
“This was dangerous. So, so dangerous. She was falling for a man who didn’t even know her real name.
The progress continued and so did the tension. Every therapy session became an exercise in self-control.
Berlin’s hands on Zire’s legs, his eyes tracking her every movement. Accidental touches that lingered a moment too long.
Charged silences that neither of them knew how to break. “You’re distracted today,” Zier observed.
One evening, Berlin startled. “What? No, I’m not. You’ve been massaging the same spot for 5 minutes.
