"I want to apologise for being difficult the other day," Harry said, clearing his throat. He readjusted his head in the spongy hole of the massage table and felt ridiculous. He imagined how he must look and bit back a laugh at the mental image.

"Difficult?" Christina replied, her thumbs digging in with a little more strength as she worked on a stubborn knot in his lower back.

"Rude. I was rude."
He shifted uncomfortably. Her hands were already on his glutes again. And damn it—he felt it. Every touch.
"Just don't pay too much attention to my mood swings, yeah? It was a bad day."

"That's okay, H. You don't have to apologise. I don't mind. I'm here for you."
Her voice was soft and reassuring. "I'd rather you take it out on me and feel better than bottle it up."

He let that sit for a second. That kind of acceptance? It meant more than he wanted to admit.

"So... you're feeling better today, then?" she asked, pressing a slow, deliberate line down the centre of his spine before sliding her hands lower again.

She felt divine. Like her hands were made for this. And not just the massage—something more. Calming. Grounding.

"Ehhh... yes. Yes. I-I do, I do," he said, but his voice cracked under the pressure of something else entirely.

Because now he could feel it—his body betraying him. Her soft, oiled hands working expertly on his glutes. Her nails accidentally brushing sensitive skin. His mind scrambled for something—anything—to pull focus.

"Niiiiice shoes, Coach," he blurted, shifting slightly, desperate to hide what was happening to him by her smooth touch.

She chuckled. "Harry, stand still."

She knew. Of course she knew. This wasn't her first time dealing with this kind of reaction. It was just biology. Especially when the patient had little control over his body. She didn't take it personally. She didn't take it at all.

"I-I can't," he admitted, mortified. His face burned, and he was grateful—so grateful—he was lying face-down.

"What do you call an alligator detective?" she asked, completely out of nowhere.

He blinked. "...What?"

"An investi-gator."

It took a bit, but he cracked. A full, boyish laugh burst out of him.

"Oh my God, Coach. That was so lame. It's even lamer than my jokes—and that says a lot."

She was easing him out of the tension without skipping a beat. Pro that she was.

"Another one?" she asked, moving down to his legs—the ones that had given him hell the night before with their sharp, angry spasms.

"Shoot."

"Why shouldn't you write with a broken pencil?"

"Why?" he asked, his voice lighter, like a kid waiting for a punchline.

"Because it's pointless."

He laughed again, freely this time.

"This is even worse!"

"Last one?" she teased.

"Let's go."

"A ham sandwich walks into a bar and orders a beer. The bartender says, 'Sorry—we don't serve food here.'"

He groaned. "These are so bad... it's actually funny how bad they are."

She smiled to herself, glad he was laughing again. She continued the massage in silence for a few moments, letting him enjoy the comfort of her touch now that the awkwardness had passed.

"So," she said eventually, giving his biceps a playful squeeze. "Are you feeling any better, Mister Big Shot?"

"Oh, I am," he said, smirking.

"Care to share your jokes, then?"

"The jokes I know? Not exactly physio-room appropriate."

"Why not?" she asked, curious. "Because I'm your therapist—or because I'm a girl?"

He grinned, eyes still closed. "All of the above. And then some."

"Ooooh, now you've got me curious."
She paused her hands. "What do you mean, 'and then some'?"

"You'd hate me if I told you the kind of jokes I tell my friends," he replied, chuckling to himself as he imagined Niall doubled over in laughter, face red, eyes tearing.

"Come on," she said, nudging his side. "I promise I won't hate you. I'm your physio—I've taken an oath to help you. Even if I do hate you, I still have to help you get back on your feet. So really, no risk."

She helped him turn and sit up. His legs dangled from the table, his hair a wild mess, cheeks flushed. He looked vulnerable. But also... kind of adorable. Adorable in a strictly medical, professional way. Obviously.

"Sorry, Coach. Not jokes meant for innocent ears, especially not for girls."

She raised an eyebrow. "That was sexist, H!"

He loved the way she played along. She wasn't offended. Just amused. Teasing.

She crossed the room to grab his wheelchair.

"So... what's the quote of the day?" he asked, changing the subject with a knowing grin.
She had long brown hair tied up in a loose bun, but he could see how the colour matched her chestnut eyes. Had she always looked like this?

"Hmmm..." she said, adjusting the brakes.
"'Starting something can be easy. Finishing it—that's the highest hurdle.'"

"Interesting. Who said that?"

"I honestly don't remember. But... does it matter?"

She moved to help him up, arms around his waist. He didn't resist. Instead, he inhaled the faint, floral scent of her skin. Feminine. Soft. Something delicate that didn't match how strong her hands were.

Once he was settled in the chair, he let out a breath. Today had been a win. He hadn't started the day that way—but now, somehow, he felt lighter.

She squatted down to help him with his shoes, and for once, he didn't stop her. Instead, he smirked.

"What's the difference between love, true love, and showing off?"

She paused, one hand on his laces, and looked up. "What?"

His eyes sparkled. "Spitting. Swallowing. Gargling."

She stared at him for a second, then slowly stood, one eyebrow arched. He didn't look away.

Then she burst into laughter—loud, unfiltered, eyes tearing up.

"Oh my God, Harry!"

"I warned you."

"That was disgusting!"
She kept laughing, no sign of judgment or awkwardness in sight.
"And... so funny."

He couldn't help but laugh with her. Relief washed over him. Dragging his chair closer, she helped him get on it with a huge smile on her face showing off her pearly teeth.

"See you tomorrow, Coach," he called, pushing toward the exit.

She waved, still grinning.

"Wouldn't miss it."