Page 3 of Endo

The drive torehab is routine now, almost mechanical. My Mustang growls as it eats up the freeway, the guttural sound of the engine a rough comfort. The car’s seen better days—dents in the hood, scratches on the black paint, and a door that sticks when it rains—but it’s mine. Bought it with the cash I scraped together from my first job as a teenager, then rebuilt it with Cruz’s help. Every bolt, every stroke of sandpaper, every curse shouted over stripped screws has his fingerprints on it.

It’s a twenty-minute drive, enough time for my thoughts to drift where they shouldn’t. Tampa hums with life around me—early risers grabbing coffee, joggers on the sidewalks, cars merging onto the freeway. I barely notice any of it. The city feels hollow now, a shell of what it used to be. The bars the team and I hit after races, the stretches of road we tore up just for the hell of it—they’re all stained with memories I can’t shake.

When I pull into the rehab center’s parking lot, the bright white building looms ahead, sterile and unwelcoming. I kill the engine and sit there for a moment, gripping the wheel until my knuckles ache. The scars on my hands stand out in the morning light, fresh bruises layering over old ones.

Inside, the receptionist gives me her usual polite smile as I sign in. I nod but don’t bother with small talk. She doesn’t get it.

Jen is waiting in the therapy room, clipboard in hand and a too-bright grin on her face. “Morning, Reign!” she chirps, her energy grating against my frayed nerves. “Ready to work on some strength training today?”

“Sure,” I mutter, avoiding her eyes.

We start with stretching. The routine is familiar now, but familiarity doesn’t make it easier. The tightness in my left knee spreads like fire as I push it further, the scars from the surgeries pulling taut. My legs ache like they’re still pinned under the weight of the wreck, metal and bone crushed together in a moment that won’t stop replaying in my head.

“You’re making good progress,” Jen says, adjusting the resistance on the leg press machine. “Your range of motion has improved a lot since last month.”

Progress.

The word grates against me. What the hell does progress even mean when everything else is falling apart?

The exercises are brutal, every movement a reminder of how much I’ve lost. Leg presses, balance drills, weighted stretches—each one is a fight against my body’s limits. The resistance bands dig into my skin, and sweat drips down my face as I push through another set. My muscles scream in protest, trembling under the strain.

Jen’s eyes linger on the bruises on my torso when I pause to catch my breath, her expression softening. She doesn’t ask, though. She’s learned not to.

“Don’t hold your breath,” she reminds me as I grit my teeth through the next set.

Easier said than done. By the time we finish, my shirt is damp with sweat, and I’m shaking with exhaustion.

“You know,” she says, her tone gentle but probing, “physically, you’re doing well enough to start training on the bike again. Not racing yet, of course, but getting back on could help. Build strength, rebuild confidence?—”

I cut her off before she can finish. “Not happening.”

Her face falls for a moment before she schools her expression. “I get it. It’s a sensitive subject. But if you ever want to talk about it?—”

“I said no,” I snap, harsher than I mean to.

Jen doesn’t flinch, but she drops it. “Alright,” she says, her voice calm. “You’re done for today. Just remember, Reign, healing isn’t just physical.”

I nod stiffly and leave without another word, guilt biting at me. I shouldn’t have snapped at her. Jen’s just doing her job, trying to help, but I’m so damn tired of people telling me how to fix myself.

I climb into my car, the leather seat burning hot from the Florida sun against my back. The engine roars to life, as I press my thumb to the screen of my phone, checking my voicemail. My mom’s number flashes on the screen.

I swipe to listen.

“Reign,agape mou,” my mom’s voice comes through, soft and warm with that familiar Greek lilt. “I need you to stop by the market for me. Just a few things, nothing too much. I’m making moussaka tonight. I ran out of the eggplant, and I need you to pick up some kefalotyri for the topping. I’ll need you to drop it off at the house, okay? I haven’t seen you in weeks, I’m worried about you.”

The message ends with the soft click of the phone, but I don’t immediately erase it. I stare at the screen for a moment longer, hearing the love in her voice, the concern that cuts deeper than I care to admit. I don’t want to talk. I don’t want her to see me like this. I’ve always been her strong son—the one who didn’t need help. I can’t let her see me broken, even though she probably already knows.

I don’t respond right away. I just let my thumb hover over the screen, weighing the decision to stop by or not. After a long moment, I finally start the car and head toward the market by her house, feeling the weight of everything pressing down on me again. I know she’s just trying to show her support, and help, but I can’t let her in.

Not today.

After the market the drive to her house is short, but my thoughts are tangled. I grab the bags from the passenger seat—kefalotyri cheese, eggplant, and some olives—and head toward the front door. As soon as I knock, I hear Apollo’s paws scraping against the floor as he runs to the door, his excited barking filling the air.

The door opens, and there she is. My mom, smiling as usual, but there’s a tightness around her eyes that wasn’t there last time I saw her.

“Reign,agape mou,” she greets me, pulling me into a warm hug, her scent of oregano and garlic instantly wrapping aroundme. Her arms are strong but gentle, the hands that have cooked for me my whole life now showing signs of age.

I hand her the bags. “I got everything you asked for, Ma.”

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