The golden morning light spilled into the penthouse, illuminating the expensive hardwood floors and tall windows. The city below had already begun its rhythm—cars honking, voices echoing, tires splashing through puddles from last night's rain. Inside, however, all was still.
Liam Hart remained motionless in bed.
His body ached in the quiet way it always did now, a dull throb in his shoulder and a stiffness in his leg that reminded him he wasn't the man he used to be. Not physically. Not emotionally. Not in control.
The knock came at 7:15 on the dot.
"Mr. Hart," Ava's voice rang out clearly through the door, not rushed, not impatient—just assertive. "Time for therapy."
No response.
Another knock. "Liam, I know you're awake."
Still, he didn't answer.
A pause.
"Okay," she said, voice dropping slightly. "You have two choices: get up willingly, or I walk in with a bucket of cold water. Your call."
A beat of silence passed. Then a groan.
"You are the most annoying woman I've ever met," Liam muttered.
"Not the first time I've heard that," she replied through the door.
He pushed the blanket off his body with a sigh. "Fine. You win."
Fifteen minutes later, he wheeled himself into the therapy room. A space once filled with clutter was now transformed: padded floor mats, resistance bands, a small treadmill, foam rollers, and stretching tables.
Ava stood waiting in athletic gear, hair tied back neatly, water bottle in hand.
"You're late," she said as he rolled in.
"I'm injured," he replied.
"You're not incapable."
He smirked. "You enjoy bossing me around, don't you?"
"I enjoy progress. Now shut up and grab the band."
Liam eyed the resistance band like it had offended him personally. She didn't flinch. She only handed it to him with firm patience.
"We're starting with shoulder mobility. Light tension. Ten reps. Ready?"
"No," he muttered, but did it anyway.
Ava moved closer, adjusting his posture carefully. Her hands were confident, not invasive. She guided him through the motion with small corrections.
"Breathe. In and out. Good—don't hunch your back. Keep it steady."
"You really don't believe in taking it easy, do you?" he grunted as he struggled through the final rep.
"Easy doesn't get results."
"Neither does pain."
"That's why I'm here—to find the balance between the two."
He didn't say it out loud, but he was impressed. She wasn't pushy in the way most professionals were. She had control without control issues. Her presence wasn't loud, but it was steady—and that was almost worse. It was harder to shake off.
After thirty minutes of shoulder work and fifteen more with light leg stretches, Liam leaned back, drenched in sweat and completely drained.
"You are a tyrant," he said, breathless.
"You're alive," she replied, tossing him a towel. "You can thank me later."
He chuckled faintly. "Doubt it."
She didn't respond. She was already sanitizing equipment and updating the logbook.
Later in the afternoon, Liam drifted into the library. The room smelled faintly of aged paper and cedarwood—a favorite of his mother's before she passed. Her old novels still lined the highest shelves. It was the one room he never redesigned.
He wheeled himself toward the window and sat in silence, watching the skyline.
He hadn't planned to stay inside this long. But even the thought of going out—being seen in a wheelchair, pitied by people he used to command—tied his gut in knots. It wasn't about pride. It was about identity. The version of himself he'd built was no longer intact.
Ava entered a few minutes later with two mugs.
"I figured you might need tea," she said, setting one beside him.
He glanced at her. "I don't remember asking."
She smiled. "You didn't. That's what makes it thoughtful."
He rolled his eyes but took the mug.
They sat in silence for a while, sipping. The city buzzed softly below them, and the warm steam curled upward between their hands.
"Do you always push people this hard?" he asked eventually.
"Only when they need it," she replied.
"Who pushes you?"
She blinked, slightly surprised. "Life, mostly."
"Harsh answer."
"Real one."
He studied her. "You don't talk about yourself much."
"I don't need to."
"Maybe I want you to."
She turned to him, brown slightly raised. "Why?"
"Because you're the only person in months who's managed to get through to me. I'd like to know why you're the way you are."
Ava leaned back in the chair, swirling her tea.
"My dad died when I was sixteen," she said after a pause. "My mom fell apart after that. I took care of my little brother while going to nursing school. I learned early on that if I didn't push, everything would collapse. So now, I don't wait for things to break. I prepare people to stand."
Liam was quiet for a long time.
"I didn't expect an actual answer," he said.
She looked at him. "I didn't expect to give one."
They held each other's gaze for a moment longer than either intended.
Something shifted.
Dinner was light—grilled vegetables, lemon chicken, and garlic rice. Ava cooked while Liam watched from the doorway of the kitchen.
"You're unusually talented for a nurse," he commented.
"I'm not a nurse," she corrected, plating the food. "I'm a certified rehabilitation specialist. I just know how to cook because I had to learn fast with a sick mom and a hungry brother."
He nodded slowly. "You always do what you have to?"
"That's how people survive, Mr. Hart."
"Liam," he corrected without thinking.
Ava paused slightly, then gave a quiet nod. "Liam, then."
They ate together at the glass dining table. There was no music, no staff, no noise but the clink of forks against plates. It was the first time he had eaten with someone since the accident that didn't feel like a chore.
"Tell me something else," he said halfway through the meal. "Anything."
She chewed thoughtfully. "I wanted to be a dancer when I was young."
That surprised him.
"Ballet?"
"Contemporary. But we couldn't afford lessons, so I copied YouTube videos in my bedroom. Eventually, nursing paid better."
He smiled softly. "That's kind of tragic."
"It's kind of life," she said simply.
After dinner, Ava helped him into the hydrotherapy tub—an activity he normally avoided. But tonight, he didn't resist. She wore sleeves rolled up and a towel slung over one shoulder as she guided him into the warm water, her movements efficient yet careful.
"You okay?" she asked.
"I haven't been okay in a while," he admitted. "But I'm better than yesterday."
"That's enough for today."
He looked at her then, really looked. In the glow of the ceiling lights and the soft scent of eucalyptus oils, she looked almost unreal—tired, but graceful, the kind of woman who didn't need to wear confidence like armor. She just had it.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
She blinked. "For what?"
"For not treating me like I'm broken."
She hesitated. Then said, "You're not broken. You're rebuilding."
And she left him with that, along with a towel, his dignity, and a strange ache in his chest that had nothing to do with the accident.
That night, Liam sat alone on the balcony, a blanket over his lap, warm tea beside him. Ava had gone to bed. The lights in her guest room were off.
He looked out at the city again, but this time, it didn't feel as far away.
He wasn't sure if it was the fresh air, the soft conversation, or the way she'd looked at him when he called her Ava instead of "Miss Monroe."
But for the first time in weeks, he wasn't just surviving.
He was starting to feel alive again.
And the reason… was her's