Page 39 of Revive Me

Roman lets go of the bar and lands on the carpet with a muffled crash. Spinning his wheelchair around, he faces me and says simply, “Pull-ups.”

I feel a bead of sweat run down between my shoulder blades underneath my scrubs. “Um…why?” Then I shake my head to clear some of the haze from my brain. “And why are you shirtless?”

He’s reaching for his shirt before my question is even finished. I feel a flash of disappointment as he pulls his t-shirt over his head, and I take that as a clear sign I need to get my shit together. Training my eyes on his face, I refuse to let them drift again.

“Sorry,” he says—though he doesn’t sound like he means it. “Ever since showers—and laundry—became a hassle, I try to limit how much I sweat. I just wanted to see how many I could do before we got started.”

Curious, I can’t help asking, “And how many did you do?”

Roman wipes his brow and says nonchalantly, “Ten. Not as many as I thought I could.”

I gape at him. “Tenis not that many?”

“I used to be able to get thirty plus,” he says with a shrug.

“I’m assuming that’s without the forty-pound wheelchair,” I say dryly.

Another shrug. “I lost that much in muscle, so it evens out.”

I throw my hands up in the air with a huff. “You are soannoyingwhen you’re negative, I swear.”

Roman quirks an eyebrow, an arrogant smirk tugging at his lips. “Interesting. You didn’t seem annoyed with me a minute ago.” When I frown in confusion, he jerks his head sideways. “I could see you watching me in the mirror.”

My cheeksburnwhen I catch his meaning. “I…I d-don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Is that how you want to play it?” Roman asks, his grin shameless. “That’s fine; we can pretend like nothing happened.”

I channel my embarrassment into a glare. “Let’s just…get started with your session.”

Roman’s grin doesn’t lose any wattage. “Sure, Doc. Whatever you want.”

He rolls over to the treatment table, and as he pulls himself up onto it, I swear there’s a pep to his movements.

It takes me busying myself with gathering some of our usual equipment to tamp down on my embarrassment over Roman catching me basically checking him out. But by the time I wrap the blood pressure cuff around his arm and realize he’s still smug as hell, I manage a grumbled, “If I had known stroking your ego was going to put you in such a good mood, I would’ve done it weeks ago.”

When I glance up at him, Roman’s face is closer than I expect it to be. “You don’t have to stroke my ego to put me in a good mood, Liliana,” he says in a low voice. One that sends a shiver down my spine.

Swallowing roughly, I force myself to respond. “What else would put you in a good mood, Roman?”

Something flashes in his eyes, too quick for me to read. But then he plasters a clearly mocking grin on his face as he says, “Why, your charming personality, of course.”

I blink, then let out a long-suffering—and dramatic—sigh as I take his wrist. “I’m going to remind you of that next time you complain about my methods. Now shush, I have to count.”

It’s impossible to ignore Roman’s pleased expression as I finish checking his vitals, though Lord knows I try. I can’t get the vision of him doing shirtless pull-ups out of my head. Because of the still-sweaty muscles, yes, but also because I’m now realizing he has way more tattoos than I thought. His usual t-shirt and shorts attire obviously revealed on day one that he has two full tattoo sleeves, but now I know most of his chest and back are covered, too.

By the time we start with our usual stretches, I’m too curious not to broach the subject. I keep my eyes on his legs as I say casually, “You’ve gotten a lot of tattoos since the night we met.”

When Roman stiffens at my question, there’s nothing flirtatious in the air between us anymore. I’ve touched on something sensitive.

But he gives me a stiff nod, which gives me enough of a green light to ask, “Did you have any two years ago? Or these are all new?”

A few seconds tick by. Then, “I had one back then.”

I hum in thought as we move to the next stretch, debating how far I want to take my questions when so much of my job is keeping him comfortable. But something is telling me the tattoos are part of his post-injury psyche.

In the end, I ask the only question I want answered.

“So…what’s the reason for all the ink?”

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