16

Marianna.

I start at the base of his neck, pressing gently into the upper trapezius. The muscle is locked up solid—feels like concrete beneath the skin, not the pliable tissue it should be.

"Here?"

"Fine."

I move laterally, following the muscle fiber direction toward the acromion. Press into the junction where trapezius meets deltoid.

His breath catches. Barely perceptible, but I'm close enough to feel the subtle hitch in his ribcage.

"Scale of one to ten?"

"Four."

Liar. That was at least a six.

I continue the assessment, working my way across his posterior shoulder. Infraspinatus: tight but not terrible. Teres minor: restricted. Posterior deltoid: that's where the real damage is. The moment I apply pressure to the bruised tissue, his entire back tenses.

"That's the problem area," I say, like it's not completely obvious. "The impact probably caused some microtearing in the muscle fibers. Nothing serious, but it's going to limit your mobility until the inflammation resolves."

"How long?"

"Depends on treatment. With proper management—soft tissue work, appropriate stretching, maybe some instrument-assisted techniques—you could be functional by Wednesday. Full recovery in a week or two." I remove my hands briefly, missing the warmth of him immediately. "Without treatment, you're looking at compensatory patterns that could lead to bigger problems down the line."

He's quiet for a moment. Processing.

"Do what you need to do," he says again.

Right. Okay. Professional.

I start with effleurage—long, gliding strokes to warm up the tissue and increase blood flow. My palms spread across his back, following the contours of muscle, and I try very hard not to notice the way his skin feels under my hands. The texture of him. The small imperfections—a scar near his spine that I don't ask about, a constellation of faded marks on his right shoulder blade that could be anything.

"You need to relax your shoulders," I tell him. "You're guarding. It'll make this harder."

"I'm not guarding."

"You absolutely are. Drop your shoulders away from your ears. Let the weight go."

He doesn't respond, but after a moment, I feel him comply. The tension doesn't disappear entirely—I'm not sure Duane Richter is capable of fully relaxing—but it decreases enough that I can actually access the deeper tissue.

I transition into petrissage, kneading the muscle with more pressure. Working out the knots, the adhesions, the places where everything has seized up and decided to stay that way. His trapezius starts to release under my hands, and I feel a small surge of professional satisfaction.

This I can do. This makes sense. Bodies I understand—it's people that confuse me.

"You're good at this."

His voice startles me. I've been so focused on the work that I almost forgot there's a person attached to the muscles I'm manipulating.

"I should hope so," I say. "I have a degree and everything."

I move to the posterior deltoid, where the bruise is darkest. This requires more careful work—too much pressure will cause more inflammation, too little won't accomplish anything. I use my thumbs, applying targeted friction to the areas where I can feel the tissue is most restricted.

He makes a sound.

Not pain. Not quite. Something lower, from somewhere deeper in his chest. A release.

"Better?"

"...Yes."

I keep working. Lose myself in the rhythm of it—press, release, glide, repeat. The familiar dance of tissue manipulation, the satisfaction of feeling knots dissolve under my hands. His breathing has changed, slower now, deeper. Some of the rigid control has leached out of his posture.

"Turn your head to the left," I instruct. "Slowly."

He does. The range is better than before—maybe fifty degrees now instead of forty.

"Good. Now right."

He complies. The right side is easier, less restricted. The damage is definitely concentrated on the left, probably from the angle of impact.

"I'm going to work on your neck now," I say. "The SCM and scalenes. It might be uncomfortable."

"Do it."

I move my position, stepping around to his side so I can access his anterior neck. This puts me closer to him than before—close enough that I can see the pulse point at his throat, the subtle movement of his Adam's apple when he swallows.

Professional, I remind myself. Clinical.

I place my fingers along the sternocleidomastoid, feeling for areas of hypertonicity. The muscle is tight—not surprising, given the forces his neck would have experienced in the crash. I start with gentle pressure, working from the mastoid process down toward the clavicle.

"Breathe," I tell him. "Deep breath in... and out."

He breathes. I press. The muscle starts to release.

"I should go," I say, pulling my hands away from his neck like his skin has burned me. "I should—you should be fine now, the tissue's released enough that—"

"Marianna."

The way he says my name. Four syllables. Like he's turning each one over in his mouth before releasing it.

"What?"

He stands up. Turns to face me fully. We're close—too close, close enough that I can see the individual striations in his irises, the places where black bleeds into something darker.

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't do this." His voice has changed. Colder now.

I feel like I've been slapped.

He stares at me for a long moment. And then:

"I'm not interested."

Three words. Delivered with the emotional temperature of liquid nitrogen.

"Excuse me?"

"In you."