Julliette. The training room smelled like dirty socks and sweat, and for a second, I considered whether I had actually been hired to be a therapist or a firefighter. There was Luka, stretching with a focused intensity that made me pause. He was young, yes but not timid. Not awkward. He moved with the kind of controlled confidence that made every shift of his muscles look purposeful, calculated, and annoyingly… magnetic. “Hold still,” I said, kneeling by his ankle, adjusting the tape. My fingers brushed his skin, but instead of a rookie’s nervous twitch, Luka just grinned at me, fully aware of the charge in the air. “Hard to hold still when the therapist keeps looking like she’s judging my form,” he said lightly, teasing. “I’m a professional athlete, you know. I expect a professional treatment.” I blinked, momentarily flustered not by the words, but by the easy way he teased, the confidence that radiated off him in waves. Invisible, Julliette. Invisible. I told myself, even as
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