Page 20 of The Assist
Something flickers across his face briefly, but then it softens.
“I thought it’d help,” he says. “Being around them. Laughing. The banter. You know. Normal shit.”
“And did it?”
He looks at me then. “Not really.”
I nod, not because I have a solution, but because I understand.
That floating feeling. Like your body’s present, but your mind never quite lands.
We move through the stretches in silence after that. It’s professional and efficient. Except every time I touch him, his arm, his shoulder, the line of his collarbone, there’s a current under my skin. An awareness I’ve been pretending doesn’t exist.
He watches me closely. As though he’s searching for something.
“I meant what I said yesterday,” he murmurs suddenly. “About you.”
My hands still. “What part?”
“That you don’t look at me like I’m full of shit.”
I meet his eyes. “That’s because you’re not.”
He tilts his head, studying me. “You ever get tired of holding it all together?”
I blink. “All the time.”
He nods like he already knew the answer. “Then why do you keep doing it?”
“Because someone has to.”
Dylan’s quiet for a moment, then he says, “I think we’re the same.”
I shake my head. “No, Dylan. We’re not.”
“Why not?”
“Because you still think breaking makes you weaker. I already know it doesn’t.”
He exhales slowly, chest rising and falling like he’s weighing that up.
The air between us goes still. It feels heavy. And something unspoken passes between us, acknowledgement, maybe. Or the edge of something more dangerous.
I step back, breaking the moment.
“Keep doing the shoulder mobility,” I say, voice firmer than I feel. “Twice a day. No skipping.”
He nods, but he doesn’t move. “Mia.”
I freeze. My name sounds different in his voice. Softer.
“I don’t want to screw this up,” he says.
I pretend not to know what he means. “Your recovery?”
He doesn’t correct me. Just lets the lie sit there, polite and unfinished.
When he leaves, he looks back once before the door shuts behind him.
