If there was one thing Bailey Dofen didn’t need in her life, it was another man telling her how to stretch.

But life, she’d learned, didn’t care much for her preferences.

“Breathe in,” said the new physical therapist, calm, gentle, entirely too composed.  

“Don’t force the movement. Let the shoulder open naturally.”

Bailey exhaled, counted to three, and resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “You make it sound poetic.”

He smiled. “Bodies like rhythm. Not control.”

She glanced at his badge—*Rhett Liu, PT.* Great. A philosopher with a license.

Man chose that exact moment to walk in, holding two iced coffees and wearing a look that could start a war.

“Well,” he said, too cheerfully, “I see we’ve discovered new ways to invade personal space.”

Rhett looked up, unbothered. “Good morning. You must be Mr. Olid.”

“I must be,” Man said, setting the coffees down. “And you are?”

“Rhett. The team’s physical therapist.”

“Of course you are.”

Bailey sighed. “Please don’t start.”

“Start what?” Man said. “I’m simply observing. Very professionally.”

Rhett didn’t flinch. “She’s got a strain from overtraining. I’ll be working closely with her for the next few weeks.”

“Closely,” Man repeated, expression perfectly polite but voice one degree too flat.  

“Define closely.”

Bailey groaned. “Can we *not* measure proximity in front of my rotator cuff?”

Man blinked. “I’m fine. Totally calm.”

“You’re vibrating.”

“I’m passionate.”

“About anatomy?”

“About accountability.”

Rhett chuckled softly, which somehow made Man’s jaw tighten further. “You’ve got a good sense of humor,” Rhett said.

“I’m told it’s a coping mechanism,” Man replied.

“Works well,” Rhett said easily. “She’s lucky to have supportive people around.”

Bailey looked between them—Rhett, all serenity and logic; Man, all charm and lightning.  

Two very different storms.

“I’m right here,” she said. “You can stop posturing.”

“Who’s posturing?” Man asked.

“You both are. One of you’s pretending he’s zen, the other’s pretending he’s not jealous.”

Rhett grinned. “She’s observant.”

Man muttered, “She’s dangerous.”

Later, as Rhett packed up his gear, Bailey caught Man leaning against the wall, pretending not to stare.  

“You could just say it,” she said. “Whatever’s on your mind.”

He glanced at her. “I don’t like other people touching you.”

She laughed. “He’s a therapist, not a threat.”

“Same thing if you squint.”

“Then stop squinting.”

“I can’t help it. It’s genetic.”

“Paranoia isn’t hereditary.”

He smirked. “My mother would disagree.”

“Shocking,” she said dryly. “A control problem in the Olid family? Never heard of it.”

“Low blow.”

“True blow.”

“Fair.”

She tossed him a towel. “You done being ridiculous?”

“Almost. Depends if you’re done pretending you don’t like it.”

She froze. “Excuse me?”

“The way I look at you,” he said lightly. “You always notice, even when you act like you don’t.”

“That’s not confidence. That’s delusion.”

He grinned. “It’s optimism. Don’t ruin it.”

“Go away, Man.”

“Make me.”

“Gladly.”

She turned to leave, but he caught her wrist—gently, a pause more than a hold.  

“I’m serious, Bailey,” he said, voice dropping. “If he ever makes you uncomfortable, tell me.”

Her tone softened despite herself. “He won’t. He’s not you.”

“Exactly,” he said. “That’s the problem.”

That night, Kaiylin was waiting outside the dorm with a knowing smirk.  

“So,” she said. “The sponsor and the therapist walk into your training schedule. Sounds like a setup for a telenovela.”

Bailey groaned. “You’re fired again.”

“You say that every week.”

“And you’re still here.”

“Because I’m irreplaceable,” Kaiylin said proudly. “So, which one are you rooting for?”

“Rooting for?” Bailey repeated. “This isn’t a game.”

“Oh, honey,” Kaiylin said. “It’s *always* a game. You’re just pretending not to play.”

Bailey didn’t answer. She looked down at her phone—  

a new message, from Man.

**M: “Tell Rhett to stop smiling at you like that. It’s bad for my concentration.”**  

She sighed, typing back before she could stop herself.

**B: “Then focus on your work instead of me.”**

A pause. Then his reply.

**M: “Can’t. You’re my favorite distraction.”**

Bailey locked her phone, but the smile that slipped out was hopelessly real.