He’s a war-hardened Marine with a wounded leg and no interest in hope; she’s the fiery physical therapist who refuses to let him give up—on healing, or on himself.
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Ruby Martinez had dealt with difficult patients before, but Blake Hutchinson was testing every ounce of her professional optimism. For three weeks, the former Marine had been coming to her physical therapy clinic with the enthusiasm of someone reporting for dental surgery, his jaw clenched and his dark eyes radiating barely controlled anger.
"Good morning, Blake," Ruby said with determinedly cheerful tone. "Ready for another session?"
Blake's response was his usual grunt as he limped toward the treatment table, favoring his left leg with careful precision. At twenty-nine, he should have been in his physical prime, but the IED that had ended his military career had left him with nerve damage and the kind of chronic pain that turned simple movements into exercises in endurance.
"We're going to work on range of motion today," Ruby continued, pulling on latex gloves. "I know it's uncomfortable, but the scar tissue needs to be broken up."
"And if I don't want to regain full mobility?" Blake asked, his voice carrying the gravelly undertone of too many sleepless nights.
Ruby paused, studying Blake's face with practiced attention. Beneath his mask of indifference, she could see pain that went far deeper than physical trauma—the look of a man who'd lost his identity along with his ability to serve.
"Then you'll spend the rest of your life proving that the explosion took more from you than just muscle function," Ruby said quietly. "Is that really what you want?"
Blake's dark eyes flashed with surprise or anger. "You don't know anything about what I want," he said roughly. "You don't know what it's like to have your entire world destroyed in thirty seconds."
"You're right," Ruby said, moving closer with deliberate calm. "But I do know what it's like to watch people give up on themselves because they're too afraid to hope that things might get better."
The moment Ruby's hands made contact with Blake's thigh, she felt him go rigid. But it wasn't just physical discomfort—there was something electric in the contact, an awareness that had nothing to do with therapy and everything to do with the sudden recognition that Blake was more than just another patient.
"Relax," Ruby said, though she wasn't sure if the instruction was for Blake or herself. "I need you to let me work the muscle, not fight against the pressure."
"I'm not fighting," Blake said through gritted teeth, but his entire body was coiled with tension.
"Yes, you are," Ruby said gently, her hands moving in deliberate circles. "You're fighting the treatment, fighting the pain, fighting the possibility that this might actually help."
Blake's breathing had grown shallow, and Ruby could see his hands clenched into fists. But there was something else too—a slight relaxation that suggested her touch was having an effect beyond simple muscle manipulation.
"Why do you care?" Blake asked suddenly, his voice rougher than before. "Why does it matter to you whether I get better or not?"
The question caught Ruby off guard, revealing a vulnerability Blake had kept hidden. "Because," she said, her hands stilling momentarily, "I became a physical therapist to help people reclaim their lives. And I've never met anyone who needed that more than you do."
Blake's eyes met hers directly for the first time, and Ruby felt her breath catch at the intensity she saw there. Pain, yes, but also something that looked like hunger—not just for healing, but for connection.
"I'm not one of your success stories," Blake said quietly. "I'm not going to suddenly see the light just because you believe in positive thinking."
"I'm not asking you to," Ruby replied, resuming her work with hands that weren't quite steady. "I'm asking you to stop sabotaging your own recovery because you're afraid of what might happen if you actually got better."
The observation hung between them, weighted with implications beyond physical therapy. Ruby could feel the shift in Blake's energy, the way his breathing changed as she continued working on muscles locked in defensive tension.
"You think I'm afraid?" Blake asked, but there was no heat in the question—just genuine curiosity.
"I think," Ruby said carefully, "that you're terrified of hoping for something and being disappointed again. So you've decided it's safer to expect nothing."
Blake was quiet for a long moment, his body gradually relaxing despite his attempts to maintain distance. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely audible.
"What if you're wrong?" he asked. "What if this is as good as it gets?"
Ruby's hands stilled completely, and she looked up to meet Blake's eyes with unexpected intensity. "Then we'll cross that bridge when we come to it," she said firmly. "But right now, today, you have more range of motion than you did three weeks ago. That's not hope—that's measurable progress."
The simple statement seemed to hit Blake like a physical blow. Ruby saw something shift in his expression, a crack in the armor he'd worn since his injury. For just a moment, she glimpsed the man he'd been before—confident, strong, capable of believing in possibilities.
But before either could explore what was building between them, the session timer chimed. Blake immediately retreated behind familiar walls, the vulnerable moment disappearing.
"Same time Thursday?" Ruby asked, though they both knew the answer.
Blake nodded curtly, already reaching for his jacket with movements noticeably smoother than at the start. "Yeah," he said. "Same time Thursday."
But as he limped toward the door, Ruby caught him looking back with an expression she couldn't quite read—something that might have been gratitude, or confusion, or the first tentative stirrings of hope.