Page 93 of Operation: Defiance

“Good.” He shifts his hand a little lower. “Same rules. Pressure coming in again.”

He works in slow, steady passes.

Top of the shoulder first, then the muscles of my upper back, then gently along the side of my neck, where everything has been clamped down for too long. He narrates each move until he’s ready to work on my wrists. Then, his voice softens, and he holds my gaze for a long moment.

“This might hurt a little more. But we can stop whenever you want.”

I swallow hard, bracing myself before I nod.

“My hand is going under your wrist,” he says. “Palm up. I’m going to support the joint and move your fingers one at a time. Slowly. You don’t have to help. Let me do the work.”

I let my hand go limp, surprised at how easy it is to trust him.

He cups my wrist, careful not to touch the deepest bruises, and lifts just enough to change the angle. His thumb glides along tendons as he curls my index finger in, then straightens it. The nerves fire badly at first, sending sharp shocks all the way to my elbow.

I swallow a curse.

“Too much?” he asks.

“Keep going,” I grunt. “It’s…worth it…if it works.”

He repeats the motion, then moves to the next finger. Each time, the burn shifts a little. By the time he reaches my pinky, my entire forearm is buzzing. But the tremors have faded, and the pins and needles are gone.

“Try a fist,” he says, shifting enough that he’s not holding me. Just supporting me. “Slowly.”

I do.

For a moment, nothing happens.

Then my fingers curl. Not all the way, not with full strength, but enough that they feel like they actually belong to me.

The wave of emotion threatens to swallow me whole.

“I’ve got you,” Asher says quietly, misreading the sound that escapes as pain. “We can stop.”

“No. Just…give me a second.” I take a breath that isn’t as shallow as it was an hour ago, and open my hand again. “It’s better. I hate that it’s better, but it is.”

Needing him is a risk. One I wish I didn’t have to take. But I do. At least, for now.

“Good.” There’s no victory in his tone. Just acknowledgment.

He glances at the tray. “The eggs are cold. Last thing you need is rubber pretending to be food.” The corners of his mouth tip up slightly. “I’m going to make a fresh plate. Don’t move unless you have to. Let your muscles relax and adjust to this new normal.”

The absence of his hand is immediate. The space he leaves behind feels bigger than it should.

I let my eyes drift close and listen to sounds too normal to belong there—Asher’s light steps across the floorboards, a cupboard opening, a quiet hiss when something hits a hot pan.

My stomach tightens as the scents carry down the hall. By the time he comes back, I’m caught between wanting and not trusting myself to want…anything.

Asher sets a fresh plate and spoon on the tray, and retreats to the chair.

“Same rules. You try. If it doesn’t work, that’s on me, not you.”

I look at the utensil for a beat, then close my fingers around the handle. The tremor is still there, but smaller. Contained. I scoop up a bite of eggs. A few pieces slide off, but most stay. The relief at such a simple motion shouldn’t hit this hard. My shoulder complains, but not as loudly, and I get the spoon to my mouth.

The heat is gentle, not scalding. Salt and warmth hit my tongue.

My stomach tightens, but after a second, eases. The relief is so sharp, it almost feels like pain.