My Kind of Therapy: Ch. 5

Chapter Five: Easing Into the Stretch

Carlton and Michelle

December had been kinder. Work still pressed, but not with the crushing weight of November. Michelle had finally managed to train up two new hires, and for the first time in weeks, her calendar wasn’t gasping for air. Carlton’s schedule lined up in its own weird way—four games at home, no flights, no hotel beds. Just the city, his place or hers, and more time together than they’d had since this whole thing began.

He’d decided to host a small get-together. Nothing fancy. Just Malik, a couple of teammates, and a few close friends. Michelle didn’t mind. She’d seen her family over Thanksgiving, filled her tank with the noisy warmth of nieces and nephews. Tonight, she was content to stay in Carlton’s orbit.

Malik had already stolen the spotlight within ten minutes of arrival. He reenacted a play from practice. Badly. Complete with falling over Carlton’s ottoman in slow motion.

The room howled. Michelle nearly did a spit take, laughing, until Carlton tossed a cushion at him and said, “Bro, stop embarrassing me in my own house.”

“No promises,” Malik replied, bowing like he’d just finished a Broadway show.

The night rolled like that. Easy laughter, food disappearing from trays faster than it could be refilled, the low hum of music under conversations. Michelle sat back at one point, glass in hand, watching Carlton move around the room. He wasn’t putting on a show. He didn’t have to. He was just… himself. And she liked him here just as much as she liked him on the court or in the clinic. Maybe more.

When everyone left and the last door clicked shut, the quiet felt heavier, but in a good way. Michelle stacked plates while Carlton gathered cups. They fell into rhythm, clearing the counters with the kind of silent teamwork that didn’t need words.

Until she noticed it.

He shifted, just slightly, carrying dishes to the sink. The set of his shoulders was off. The gait wasn’t the smooth glide she knew; it caught, almost imperceptibly, on his left side.

“Carlton,” she said softly.

He didn’t turn. “Hmm?”

“What’s going on with your back?”

“I’m fine.” Too quick. Too dismissive.

She set her glass down with a deliberate clink and moved before he could escape again. He turned to put something in the sink, but she was already there, catching him between the island and the counter. He blinked. Caught. Nowhere to go.

“Carlton,” she repeated. “Talk to me. You’re walking like a man a half step into retirement,” she joked.

“Come on, Michelle. Don’t do that,” he said, walking around her.

“Carlton.”

For a second, he held her gaze like he was deciding whether to push past it. Then he sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “I wanted tonight to be perfect. I didn’t want you to worry about anything. But I tweaked my back earlier this week, and it’s been… lingering.” He looked down, jaw tight. “I’ve been stressed, honestly. I don’t need anymore time on the bench. I don’t-“, he sighed. “I don’t want the only time I see you to be on somebody’s table. Not now.”

Her chest softened, not at his words but at the frustration behind them. She leaned back against the counter, keeping him close. His height, his presence—right there, just a breath away.

“I think I know what this is and I don’t think it’s just about basketball,” she said slowly, carefully. “I’ve only heard about this technique, but I’ve never really been able to use it. But if you trust me, I’d like to try.”

He raised a brow, half-skeptical, half-intrigued. “What kind of technique?”

“The good kind.” A small smile tugged at her lips. “But you have to let me lead.”

He hesitated, searching her eyes. Then, after a sigh, he gave a short nod. “I trust you.”

She held out her hand. He took it without hesitation, large palm swallowing hers, and she pulled him closer until the air between them was thin. Her other hand lifted, brushing his shirt hem. “May I?” she whispered.

His voice was low, rough. “Yeah.”

Her fingers slid beneath the fabric, warm against his skin, and he flinched at the first contact—more from surprise than pain. Her hands skimmed his back, finding the lines of muscle she knew too well, tracing until she reached the knot, tight and stubborn. He winced. She pressed gently. “Here?”

He exhaled. “There.”

“Okay,” she whispered. “Deep breath.”

He obeyed, closing his eyes. She felt the rise of his chest under her hands. And as his lungs emptied, she lifted on her toes, leaned in, and brushed a soft kiss against his lips.

“I love you, too,” she breathed, timing the words with the release. Her voice was steady, her heart anything but. “Now let that settle in.”

His eyes flew open, stunned. For a second, he just stared, like he wasn’t sure if she meant it or if he’d imagined it. Then he moved, fast, sure, closing the space, his mouth on hers again, deeper this time. The kiss said everything he hadn’t been able to put into sentences these past months, all the restraint burning away in one rush.

Michelle’s fingers curled into his back, holding him close, not as his PT, not as the one who kept him from injury, but as the woman who loved him. And for the first time, she let herself believe he might really love her too.

Michelle pulled away first, breath shaky. Her body was doing things she hadn’t felt in years, and it scared her how much she didn’t want it to stop. She put a hand on his chest, pushing just enough space to breathe.

“It’s hot,” she admitted. “We can’t.”

Carlton blinked. “We can’t?”

“Not like that.” She started pacing the living room, arms crossed tight like that might keep her from combusting.

He tilted his head, half amused. “Yeah. No. That was a lot.”

“Yeah.” She pointed at him like it was his fault. “We talked about that.”

He frowned. “We did?”

“Yeah, we didn’t want to go there.”

He laughed, incredulous. “We talked about that?!”

Michelle bent over, hands on her knees, breathing hard like she’d just finished suicides. “Carlton, I love you, but I don’t know if I have the self-control to do that again.”

That broke him. He grinned wide and charged around the couch. There was nothing wrong with his back now! She tried to dart the other way, but he was quicker, catching her at the edge.

“Carlton—” she started, but her laughter gave her away. They both fell on the couch.

He kissed her again. She let him. Slower this time. Deeper. Intentional in a way that made her toes curl. It threatened more, promised more, but stopped right at the edge.

When he finally pulled back, both of them were breathless again.

“Okay,” he said, voice low but steady. “I agree.”

She leaned her forehead against his chest, still catching her breath. “Good. Because that was… yeah.”

“Yeah,” he echoed, smiling against her hair.

They let it hang there before moving back into the kitchen. He grabbed the stray cups, she loaded plates into the dishwasher. It felt oddly domestic; two people tidying up after a night that had been bigger than both of them.

When the counters were finally clear, she reached for her coat. “I should go.”

“You’re not leaving,” he said flatly, already hanging the dish towel back on the oven handle.

“Carlton—”

“Michelle, it’s past midnight,” he cut in. He stepped toward the window, nodding at the flakes falling thick and slow under the streetlight. “It’s snowing. I’m not letting you drive in that.”

Her mouth opened, ready to argue, but the sight of snow softening the world outside made her pause.

He turned back to her, tone gentler now. “Stay. I’ll take the couch.”

Her eyes flicked up at him, searching, soft. “You don’t have to—”

“I do,” he said simply. “You’ll sleep better knowing it.”

Something in her eased at that. She slipped out of her coat and draped it over a chair. “Okay,” she whispered, almost surprised at herself.

He smiled, quiet and relieved. “Good.”

The TV hummed low in the background as they settled. She curled up in the bed with a blanket he grabbed, still warm from the dryer. He lingered a little too long before heading to the couch, watching her settle in with that same half-smile he got when the game was already won.

For the first time in months, Michelle let herself rest without fighting it.

And for the first time in years, Carlton didn’t mind giving up his bed.

My Kind of Therapy – Ch. 4.2

Chapter Four: November Stretch

Carlton

The office still smelled faintly of coffee and copier ink, the kind of mix that clung to walls when a long day refused to end. Reese leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, listening while I tried to keep my tone even.

“You’re telling me you haven’t put in for the contract yet?” I asked.

Reese rubbed his jaw. “I’m running numbers, CJ. I need to make sure—”

“No.” I cut him off, sharper than I meant. “I told you Coach is in the market. Why haven’t you done anything?”

His eyes narrowed. “It’s not that simple.”

“It is that simple.” I leaned forward, hands pressing into my knees. “You’ve got the talent, the team, and the track record. You’re scared, Reese. You’re acting like you’ve got something to lose when all you’ve done this year is win.”

He exhaled hard, like the truth stung. “We lost two therapists in a month.”

“And you replaced them with Michelle,” I shot back. “Who you just admitted is a game changer.”

His silence was answer enough.

“You ran the numbers,” I pressed. “And?”

“And…” He shifted in his chair, finally letting the words out. “This year we’ve had more clients than the last four combined. Word of mouth is crazy. People ask for Michelle by name. She’s getting them back faster than I can track. She’s building a reputation across the city.” He shook his head, half proud, half worried. “That’s the problem. What if she leaves, CJ? What if this pace burns her out and I lose the very person holding us together?”

I felt my jaw tighten. “You already are burning her out. I see it. You gave her the weight of two people and she’s still standing. That’s not a reason to hold back, it’s a reason to go bigger. Get her help. Build around her. That’s what leaders do.”

Reese frowned. “You sound like you’ve got all the answers.”

“I don’t.” I leaned back, gave him space. “But I know this: you throw your name in for that contract, I’ll back you with Coach myself. You got me back on the court three weeks sooner. That’s leverage. Just throw me the lob—I’ll finish it.”

For a second, he stayed stone-faced. Then a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, despite himself. “Alright. I’ll look into it. If I throw our name in, you better back me up.”

I grinned back, voice firm. “You know I will.”

The air loosened after that. We let the tension bleed off the way old teammates do—naturally, like a muscle unclenching after the final whistle. Reese leaned forward, elbows on the desk.

“You always did get worked up when you believed in something,” he said. “Back in college, you’d chew a whole locker room out just because one guy missed a rotation.”

“And we won, didn’t we?” I shot back.

He laughed, pointing at me. “See? Same Carlton. Only difference is now you’ve got someone making you this fired up off the court, too.”

I shook my head, smiling despite myself. “Don’t start.”

“Nah, I’m serious,” he said, eyes narrowing in that way that meant he’d already connected the dots. “I haven’t seen you like this since Tiffany Caruthers.”

That name pulled a laugh out of me, low and unplanned. “Man, don’t bring up high school.”

Reese smirked, enjoying it too much. “You were gone over that girl. Walked around like you had a permanent pep in your step.”

“Yeah, well… this isn’t high school.”

His grin softened, genuine now. “I know. That’s why I can tell it’s real.”

I didn’t bother dodging the truth. My voice dropped, steady as I said it: “Yeah. I’m in love with her.”

Reese leaned back again, watching me like a man who’d just confirmed what he already knew. “I figured,” he said simply.

We sat in the quiet a beat, the kind that only exists between brothers who’ve run suicides together and earned each other’s scars.

Finally, he clapped his hands together, breaking the spell. “Alright. I’ll look into this contract. No more pump fakes. But if this blows up, I’m sending Michelle to you with the complaint form.”

I laughed, standing to leave. “She’d probably write it in triplicate.”

“Exactly why I need her around.”

We shared a look, the kind that said more than the words. Then I headed out into the November night, knowing Reese would follow through—not just because I pushed him, but because deep down he wanted to win, too.

By the time I left his office, the night air hit sharp against my skin. November had settled into the kind of cold that reminded you basketball was an indoor game. I sat in the car for a while, engine off, thumb hovering over my phone.

Three months we’d been together. Nine months I’d known her. And still, nights like this, the distance pressed harder than a full-court press.

The season was a machine—four games a week, two cities in three days, hotel beds that all felt the same. I’d learned to live with the rhythm. But loving her inside of it? That was new. And harder.

Finally, I hit call.

She picked up on the third ring, voice soft like she’d been working too long again. “Hey.”

“Did I wake you?”

“No. Just finished some paperwork. Trying to convince myself to turn my brain off.”

“Any luck?”

A little laugh, weary but real. “Not so far.”

I leaned against the headrest, shutting my eyes. Just hearing her did more for me than sleep ever could. “You need to stop taking it all home.”

“Easier said than done.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s not true.” I paused, then said it straight: “I had a conversation with Reese tonight.”

“Oh?” she asked, careful.

“Yeah. Contracts. I pushed him.”

“Pushed him how?”

I hesitated, then softened. “Doesn’t matter right now.”

I gripped the steering wheel, wishing distance could collapse on command. “Michelle, put the paperwork down.”

She chuckled. “You sound like you’re giving me orders.”

“I am. Put it down. Right now.”

Another shuffle. Then a sigh. “Fine. It’s down.”

“Good.” I smiled. “Now lay back.”

“I’m on the couch already.”

“Perfect. Stay there. I’ll watch film so the TV doesn’t get lonely, and you…” I let the quiet stretch. “…you just breathe.”

We stayed like that, neither rushing.

“You always do this,” she said softly after a while. “Sneak past my walls.”

“Maybe your walls were never built for me,” I answered before thinking.

Another pause. This one heavy enough to make me wonder if I’d said too much. Then she whispered, “Maybe not.”

We didn’t say much after that. Didn’t have to. She drifted, her breathing evening out, while I sat in the car listening like it was music.

By the time we said goodnight, it was past midnight. I carried her voice upstairs with me, through brushing my teeth, through watching film with the sound off, through laying in bed staring at the ceiling.

The season would keep spinning. Flights, practices, games. But for the first time in a long time, I knew what I wanted off the court. And I wasn’t about to pump fake when the lane was wide open.

My Kind of Therapy – Ch. 4

Chapter Four: November Stretch

Michelle

I thought Monday mornings were supposed to move slow. Coffee, emails, easing into the week.
This one came like a wrecking ball.

By 9:15, two resignation letters hit Reese’s desk back-to-back. Both therapists—good ones, steady hands—decided they were done. Different reasons. Same result.

The first letter came from Jordan, who was one of our longest-tenured therapists. His mom was sick, and he needed to move back home to help. No one could fault him for that. The second came from Alyssa, who’d been on the fence for months, saying she wanted to try her hand at teaching full-time.

Two at once, though? It was a gut punch.

By 9:30, the phone wouldn’t stop ringing. Clients called to ask if their sessions were still on, if their programs would stall, if they’d be reassigned. Some were understanding. Others were already frustrated.

By 10:00, one therapist stormed into Reese’s office, demanding to know how he was going to redistribute the caseload. Another hovered near the front desk, muttering about burnout.

And by 10:15, I felt it—chaos, thick in the air, like humidity that made it hard to breathe.

I didn’t have time to think about how tired I was, or how long my weekend had been, or how little sleep I’d managed. I just moved.

I rerouted two clients to therapists I trusted to take them on without complaint. I grabbed the schedule binder, cross-referenced it against the app, and patched holes before anyone could trip on them. I picked up the phone myself and called three clients personally, just to assure them they weren’t forgotten.

“Hi, this is Michelle from the clinic. I just wanted to let you know we’ve already set you up with another therapist. Your program won’t miss a beat.”

Calm voice. Steady tone. Smile on my face even though they couldn’t see it.

One woman actually sighed in relief. “Thank you. I was nervous. I don’t want to lose momentum.”

“You won’t,” I promised. And I meant it.

Behind me, another therapist barked something about overbooking. Reese’s door clicked shut because he was on a call trying to patch up the business side of the fallout.

So I kept going.

By noon, I only had a sip water. By 1:30, I just had a bite of a protein bar that Jasmin gave me for lunch.

I was running on adrenaline and stubbornness. A strange kind of calm lived in me when everything else was breaking apart.

Reese finally caught me near the front desk while I was printing an updated schedule. His tie was loose, his forehead lined.

“Michelle,” he muttered, low enough so only I could hear, “you’re holding this place together. Thank you.”

It stopped me for half a second.

“Just doing my part,” I said, because I didn’t know how to take a compliment when everything inside me felt like duct tape holding a cracked foundation.

He gave me a look—one that said he saw through me—and walked off to take another call.

The rest of the week blurred.

Every morning, I walked into a storm. Every evening, I walked out feeling like I’d left part of myself behind.

The clients didn’t see it, though. They just saw order, structure, reassurance. The therapists, at least most of them, relaxed once they saw the load spread out. Reese got some breathing room to focus on salvaging the contracts.

But me? I was running on fumes.

By Friday night, my hands were still trembling from the constant back-and-forth of typing, texting, and adjusting schedules. My eyes burned. My brain felt like static.

And still, I said yes when Carlton texted.

Carlton: Fly out tomorrow morning. You free?

I looked at my phone for a long time before I typed.

Me: Exhausted.

The three dots bubbled on the screen. Stopped. Started again.

Carlton: Come anyway...please?

I closed my eyes. It was already late. I should’ve gone home, eaten something frozen, collapsed into bed.

But my heart typed before my head could argue.

Me: On my way.

His place wasn’t far, which is probably the only reason I actually went. I still had my work bag slung over my shoulder when he opened the door.

He smiled, soft but steady. “Long week?”

“Extremely.”

I dropped my bag on the floor like it weighed a hundred pounds. My phone buzzed in the side pocket. I ignored it for three seconds before the reflex kicked in and I reached for it.

Carlton stepped forward and gently took it from my hand.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low, the kind of low that doesn’t demand. It invites. “Didn’t you tell me once you do this? Bring work home?”

My throat tightened. “I have to make sure—”

He shook his head, not unkindly. “Not tonight.”

And just like that, the dam broke. Tears hit before I even knew they were coming. The kind that burned hot because they’d been waiting too long.

Carlton didn’t flinch. He just pulled me close, one hand on the back of my head like he’d done it a thousand times in his mind before tonight.

“Michelle.” He said my name like it was safe here. Like I was safe here.

I pressed my face into his chest and finally let myself fall apart. Weeks of holding everything together poured out in the span of minutes. The chaos, the exhaustion, the ache of balancing this thing between us with the weight of everything else.

“This is hard,” I whispered into the fabric of his shirt. It wasn’t just about work. It was us.

“I know,” he said simply.

When the tears slowed, he tipped my chin up gently.

“Come lay down,” he said. “I’ve got film to catch up on anyway.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a soft directive, one that carried care, not control.

I let him lead me to the couch. He sat first, remote in hand, and pulled me down beside him. Not against him, not yet, but close enough that when I leaned, I found his shoulder waiting.

The TV flickered to life, some preseason reel playing, voices analyzing plays I barely heard.

He didn’t move much. Didn’t ask for anything. Just sat there with me, solid and warm, a steady rhythm of breath against my temple.

At some point, I drifted. The exhaustion finally caught up, heavier than gravity.

The last thing I remember was his thumb brushing my hand once, almost absentmindedly, like a reminder that I wasn’t alone.

I woke up to silence.

The TV was off. The blanket tucked over me wasn’t mine.

But the air carried something warm—eggs, maybe, and toast. The faint scent of coffee.

Carlton wasn’t in the room.

I blinked, tried to orient myself, then heard the sound of drawers opening down the hall.

He came out a minute later, dressed for travel: joggers, team duffel slung across his back.

“Hey,” he said softly, seeing me stir. “Sorry. I tried not to wake you.”

“What time is it?” My voice was rough with sleep.

“Early.” He set his bag by the door. “I’ve got to head out soon. But—” he nodded toward the kitchen, “I made you something. Please eat before you leave, okay?”

I followed his eyes toward the counter. A plate sat there waiting, steam curling into the air.

My throat tightened. “Already?” I managed, trying to keep my voice even.

“Yeah.” He crossed the room, crouched down so we were eye-level. “Hey. It’s fine. We’ll figure this out.”

Tears pricked my eyes again, uninvited. I hated how easily they came the last few weeks.

He caught it, though. Of course he did.

“I think this is worth the figuring out, Michelle.”

He brushed a hand against my cheek, quick, before standing.

I watched him sling his bag over his shoulder, open the door, and step into the dark morning.

And for the first time, I realized I didn’t just like him around.
I wanted him.

My Kind of Therapy – Ch. 3.2

Pick Up Game Pt. 2

Carlton

When she said yes, I had to school my face not to give away what was happening under my skin.

I’d asked half-expecting her to check her watch, mumble something polite, and let me off easy. Instead, she hesitated, then said, “Yeah, I could eat.”

It was nine o’clock on a Tuesday. Nothing about that answer was automatic.
And that’s how I knew.

The walk to the car felt longer than it was, every step too aware of her beside me. I’d spent months memorizing the way she moved in a professional space—shoulders squared, eyes sharp, words clipped with precision. Tonight she wasn’t that. Tonight she looked like she’d left the clinic behind and remembered she was allowed to just… be.

The diner wasn’t fancy—linoleum floors, neon sign humming in the window, waitresses who knew everyone by name whether they wanted to be known or not. But when she slid into the booth across from me, ponytail loose, cheeks flushed from the game, eyes still bright from laughter, it felt like the kind of place you remember years later just because this was where it started.

I asked if she wanted coffee. She smirked. “Not unless you want me wired till morning.”
So water for her, iced tea for me. Small things, but they felt like first steps in the right direction.

At first, we stayed light. Trash-talk carryover from the court, jokes about Malik’s constant need for attention, the art of hitting a bank shot and pretending you meant it. She laughed at one of my stories about rookie hazing, and the sound was easy—unforced. I realized how badly I wanted to hear it again.

But little by little, the conversation turned. She asked about travel, how much the schedule wears on you when the world only sees the highlight reel.

“It’s a grind,” I admitted. “They see forty-eight minutes. They don’t see the ice baths at two a.m. or the days when your body’s cashing checks your head didn’t even write.”

Her eyes softened in a way that made me feel seen. “So why do it?”

I thought for a second. “Because even with all that—there’s nothing else like it. Court feels like the one place where I know exactly who I am. But… I do think about what’s next sometimes.”

That surprised her. “Most guys won’t admit that out loud.”

“Most guys don’t have someone worth being honest with,” I said before I could edit it down.

Her lips parted like she wanted to say something, then closed again. She traced the rim of her glass. “Sometimes I wonder that too. If this—helping people with movement, recovery, rehab—is my forever, or just the season I’m in. I love it, but… I don’t know. I don’t want my whole identity to be my job, you know?”

I nodded slow. “Makes sense. You’re more than the clipboard.”

The way she looked at me told me that sentence hit closer to her core than I expected.

We shifted again, this time into lighter waters. She leaned in, smirk tugging at her mouth. “You must be used to it though. All the attention. Athletes don’t usually sit in diners at 10 p.m. on a Tuesday—they’ve got women lining up.”

I laughed. “You give me too much credit.”

“Do I?” she teased.

“Yeah,” I said, pointing my straw at her. “Meanwhile, I’m guessing you’ve broken a few hearts without even knowing it.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Excuse me?”

I shrugged. “Don’t act like you don’t know. Some guy probably thought you were smiling at him when you were just being polite, and he went home writing your wedding vows in his head.”

She shook her head, laughing, but her cheeks warmed. “That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s the truth,” I said, and for a second the joke wasn’t a joke anymore.

We let the silence hold between us—not awkward, just charged. Then she broke it with a story about her sister stealing her car in high school and crashing it into a mailbox, and the spell loosened into laughter again.

Time started bending after that. We moved from surface to depth without ceremony. Family, past seasons, moments that shape you in ways strangers don’t see. The food barely mattered. Fries turned cold, ice melted in glasses, but neither of us cared. Hours slipped past without either of us checking the time. By the time we realized, the staff was half-wiping tables like they wanted to close but weren’t going to tell us to leave.

Walking her out, I slowed down without meaning to. The air was cool, sharp enough to remind you the night was ending but soft enough you didn’t want it to. She thanked me like it was just a meal, but we both knew it wasn’t just that. Not for me.

At her car, I almost rushed it. Almost blurted out let me take you out officially just to stop holding it in. But something in me knew better. Timing mattered. She deserved more than a rushed ask under a buzzing streetlight.

So I steadied my voice.
“I’m out of town for a stretch starting tomorrow,” I told her. Preseason—starters wouldn’t play, but the travel was mandatory. “But when I get back…” I held her eyes so she knew this wasn’t casual. “…let’s do this again. Properly.”

For a second, she didn’t answer. She swayed a little where she stood, her hand brushing the strap of her bag. The light caught her face just enough for me to see the blush rising, the way she bit her bottom lip like she was working something out in real time.

And then she smiled—small, certain.
“I look forward to it.”

I felt that answer settle deeper than anything I’d felt in months.

I got in my car that night knowing two things for sure:
Basketball was coming back to me.
And so was she.

No pump faking this time.

My Kind of Therapy – Ch. 3

Chapter Three: Pick Up Game Pt. 1

Michelle

I wasn’t supposed to be here.

I made three separate deals with myself between my apartment and the rec center.

Deal one: if there’s no parking, I’m going home.
Deal two: if the first court’s packed, I’m going home.
Deal three: if I lace up and still feel weird, I’m going home.

Parking lot had a spot. Court had room. And the second I tightened my laces and felt the familiar snug of leather around my heel, the weird feeling left like it had showed up at the wrong address.

I checked in, signed the clipboard—pickup from 6 to close, winners hold, next five on—and stretched along the baseline. The place smelled like polished wood and after-work sweat. A couple teens were practicing between games, flicking threes with loose wrists. Two men in their forties argued about an out-of-bounds call so politely it almost wasn’t an argument. The scoreboard was off; in here we carried the count in our heads.

I got run on the third game. New faces glanced at me, eyebrow ticks, that half-second they always take to decide if a woman on the list is a mascot or a basketball player.

“Run point?” one of my teammates asked, testing.

“Depends,” I said. “You set a screen?”

“Always.”

“Then yeah.”

We found rhythm fast. Nothing fancy. I pushed pace when the lane opened, pulled back when feet got heavy. Hit a midrange that felt like muscle memory, then fed a big for an easy lay. Breath came hot and familiar; my shoulders settled into that roll that says keep calling for it.

We were up two when I caught a voice I knew without having to turn.

“Michelle?”

I pivoted and there he was on the sideline—gray shorts, white tee, hands on hips, that same steady look he had at the clinic, minus the clinic. Carlton.

My heartbeat did a small, unathletic thing.

I lifted my chin. “You lose your gym?”

He smiled like I’d said something funnier. “Malik said they needed a body.”

“Don’t worry. This one is almost over,” I chided. “Sign in.”

He gave me a sarcastic salute. “Yes, ma’am.”

I tried not to notice the small explosion that sentence set off somewhere under my ribs.

“Next up,” the counter guy yelled.

I tightened my ponytail, met his eyes across the court, and tossed him a ball. “Try to keep up, Carlton.”

He put his palm toward the floor, gesturing that I was too small. I fought the smile that crept up like a thief. It won. This time.

First possession of the game, he guarded me. Of course he did. Too much pride not to. I crossed once, twice, faked like I was pulling back. He bit just enough. I drove hard, planted, banked it high off the glass right over him. His hand was late.

“Bucket,” I called, maybe louder than necessary.

He shook his head, grinning. “You really called glass?”

“I really made it,” I shot back.

He jogged downcourt, still smiling. “That’s one.”

“One’s enough,” I muttered, though we both knew it wasn’t.

The rest of the game was pure fun. He played me tougher after that, but I didn’t mind. We traded shots, ribbed each other, bumped shoulders without apology. When the final point dropped, his team edged mine by two.

Second game, we ended up on the same side. That was different.

I didn’t think about it at first—just ran the lanes, hit an outlet, reset when the play got messy. But then he screened for me, shoulder solid, space wide open, and I came off it like I’d been running it with him for months. Jumper, clean.

“Good look,” he said, hand up.

We slapped palms. Quick, casual. Too casual for how warm it felt.

Next possession, I picked up their guard. Carlton’s man cut through and we switched without talking, my hand brushing his back as we traded. Not much. Barely there. But noticable.

He cracked a joke after a missed layup, something about my assist-to-turnover ratio, and I pushed him in the chest, playful. He leaned back like I’d actually moved him, grinning.

“You’re trouble,” I said.

“True.”

By the third run, we were moving in rhythm—his cut feeding my pass, my drive opening his shot. He tapped my elbow after a jumper, I smacked his hand after a block. Little things, but not little to me.

By the end, the gym air felt soft around the edges the way it does after you’ve done what you came to do. Win or lose, the sweat evens people out.

We grabbed our bags from the bleachers at the same time without planning to.

“You hoop here a lot?” he asked.

“No,” I said, tying my laces loose. “It’s close enough to trick myself into coming. Today, I had to clear my head from some work stuff.”

“Good trick.”

We walked toward the door together, that heavy-but-not-heavy quiet padding along with us. Fluorescents hummed. Somebody in the corner kept shooting until the ball said “enough.”

At the cooler by the door, he poured water into a paper cup and handed it to me first, then filled his own. Small gesture. Big impact. I took a sip to have something to do besides look at him.

“I didn’t know you came here,” I said.

“I don’t, to be honest. But it’s a good group out here,” he smiled.

We were both quiet again, not the awkward kind. The kind that makes you aware of the space between two people because it’s not asking to be filled. It’s just… there.

He cleared his throat, eyes flicking to mine and then away. Nervous? Not something I was used to seeing on him.

“Next time you need to clear your head,” he said finally, “call me.”

It landed like a clean catch. No fumble, just hands and ball and certainty.

“I might,” I said, and then immediately felt the flush rise because I sounded more open than intended.

He let the silence breathe a moment. Then, hesitant, almost careful, he added, “You hungry?”

The question hung there.

I glanced at my watch. A little past nine. Later than I realized. I should’ve said no. Should’ve begged off with the easy excuse of an early morning.

But instead I heard myself say, “Yeah. I could eat.”

And I surprised myself by meaning it.

My Kind of Therapy – Ch. 2.2

Chapter Two: The Space Between pt. 2

Carlton

It’s easier to do the right thing when no one’s watching you do it. The hard part is sitting with yourself afterward.

Jasmin is excellent. I knew she would be. Her notes are precise in the app. Her hands find the spots that bark and coax them into something like cooperation. We move through progressions clean. No slack. No showboating.

But there are details I miss and pretend not to. The way Michelle says “let it settle” when a muscle wants to argue. The way she laughs when I act like a single-leg RDL is personal. The way she catches the micro-wince before I admit it’s a six out of ten and says, “Let’s back you off two degrees,” saving me from my own pride.

I keep all of that to myself because I chose this. Choosing means owning the stretch that follows.

The weeks after I told Reese, the schedule flipped like a page. We finally landed on Jasmin. New hands, new voice, new routine. Professional. Clean. No lines to worry about crossing. But absence is loud if you know how to listen to it.

My body was coming back to me in ways I trusted—shoulder stable, footwork cleaner, lungs remembering. The film didn’t lie. Neither did the mirror. But my head? It kept sliding toward her at odd angles: when a cue landed and I wanted to tell someone who would appreciate the precision, when a song in the weight room sounded like the one we joked about in session three, when recovery felt like prayer and I wanted to show it to someone who would treat it like church.

Reese and I had lunch out of habit on Wednesdays. Same little spot where the owner calls you “chief” even if you look like you’ve never captained anything. He ordered whatever he always ordered; I ordered protein like I was trying to convince my cells I still loved them. We ate in the comfortable quiet of men who’ve run suicides together and don’t need words to prove they did.

“You’re doing that thing,” he said, eventually.

“What thing?”

“Staring through food like it owes you money.”

I snorted. “I’m here.”

“Not fully.” He dipped a fry in something orange and sinful. “How’s the new setup?”

“Fine.” I shrugged. “Good work is still good.”

He waited, because he’s the kind of friend who can wait and still get an answer.

I rolled the condensation between my fingers. “She listens better than anybody I’ve worked with. That’s rare.”

Reese nodded, eyes on me, not the fries. “You told me that two months ago without the extra sentence you just didn’t say.”

“What sentence is that?”

“That you like her.”

I tilted my head. “I told you that already.”

“You told me the professional version.” He grinned. “I’m fluent in both.”

I laughed, because he earned it. Then I said the thing I’d learned to say when it was true: “I’m being careful.”

“Careful’s good.” Reese wiped his hands. “Also: no one ever won a game with only pump fakes.”

“I’m not pump faking.”

He lifted his palm. “I know. All I’m saying is when the lane opens, take it.”

I nodded, filed it, and changed the subject to the only thing that could ever hold equal weight for me: the work. We mapped the next two weeks like you map a road you can already see with your eyes closed: route, rest stops, exits you promise not to take.

Later that week, I swung by Reese’s sister’s coffee shop to help her unload a shipment. She’d asked me once before, and I never minded lending a hand. The place had its own rhythm—mismatched mugs stacked by the espresso machine, paperbacks that smelled like rain and glue, sunlight spilling lazy across wooden tables.

I came in through the back, carrying a box on my shoulder, and that’s when I saw her.

Front corner by the window, hair down, a dress I’d never seen her wear in the clinic. She was with another woman—her sister, I guessed. She’d mentioned her once during a session, in that offhand way you mention home when you’re still trying to figure out what “home” even means in a new city.

Michelle didn’t see me. She was laughing at something her sister said, head tipped, shoulders loose. Free. And in that split second, I understood a new kind of unfair: how someone could be breathtaking just by existing in their own joy.

She wasn’t taped into bands or counting reps or measuring degrees of flexion. She was just a woman with sunlight in her hair and the kind of smile you don’t earn by accident..

I dropped the box on the counter in the back, leaned against the shelves, and let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

I’d seen her a hundred times before. Hair pulled back. Black polo. Black pants. Focused. Professional.

But this? This was different. Dress soft against the light, and falling on every curve. Her laugh spilling like she’d been saving it.

She looked… free. And it wasn’t freedom from me or from anything else. It was freedom in herself.

And I wanted in on that. Not to take it, not to own it—but to be near enough that when she smiled like that, I could be the reason, even if only part of it.

Just months ago, I was thinking about angles and rehab protocols. Now I was thinking about what it would take to deserve that kind of closeness.

And that scared me in the best way. Because it meant this wasn’t a distraction. This wasn’t a passing thought. It was a shift.

I stayed in the back longer than I needed to, pretending to sort boxes so I wouldn’t risk bumping into her. But every sound from the front—her laugh, the scrape of her chair—pulled at me like magnets under the floor.

Eventually, I slipped out the side door. Some things you don’t interrupt, not when they’re that pure.

Back at the facility, Malik coasted beside me on a scooter someone had probably bought with poor judgment and a coupon code. “CJ,” he said, “you look like a man with a plan.”

“I’m a man with conditioning,” I said. “Big difference.”

He grinned, his favorite expression. “You still thinking about that PT?”

“She’s not my PT anymore.”

“Yeah,” he said, rolling the word like gum. “Exactly.”

I shook my head to chase him off and hit the court to shoot.

Ten makes from each spot, no move-ons until the net agreed. The ball felt clean in my hand. I don’t know how to describe the moment when your body and your will remember each other’s phone numbers again, except to say it’s like a city turning its lights back on.

Back to the grind.

My Kind of Therapy – Ch. 2

Chapter Two: The Space Between pt. 1

Michelle

It’s wild how a single empty hour can echo.

The thing about losing a client, especially one you’ve seen twice a week for months, is that the rhythm of your week changes. Not just the schedule, but the way the hours feel.

Carlton’s hour used to anchor my Saturday mornings. I’d come in, grab my tea, and know that the first real conversation of the day would be with someone who understood what it’s like to miss the thing you love doing most.

My first appointment is fifteen minutes late, and I hate that I notice the difference.

I pour hot water over the same tea bag twice and it still tastes strong. The clinic is calm at opening—sunlight cutting long rectangles across the lobby floor, the printer whispering to itself, the front door giving that soft hydraulic exhale every time someone comes in. I take a breath like the building’s doing it with me, slow and measured, and remind my body: we’re fine.

I add two lines to a treatment plan for someone else. I erase one and write it back, because indecision looks better typed.

When my client finally arrives, apologies tumble out of her like a dropped bag of marbles—sorry for the traffic, sorry for the no-show last week, sorry for the shoes squeaking on the floor. I steady her, settle her, and in fifteen minutes we’re working, the room doing that thing it does where time narrows to muscles and breath and what’s possible right now. That part always saves me. The work is a rope you can grab when your thoughts want to go wandering.

But the quiet moments in between, cleaning a headrest, switching out a band, the turn of my body toward the door because it used to open, that’s where the echo lives.

Jasmin passes by while I’m wiping down the table. She taps the doorframe. “Your nine became your eleven. You good?”

“Always,” I say. It lands a little too bright.

She lingers, the way people do when they’ve decided to care even if you won’t say you need it. “Carlton’s a machine,” she adds. “He did the tempo work without cheating. You must’ve trained that into him.”

I huff a laugh. “He came wired that way.”

“He asked me to keep the band sequence,” she says. “The wording. Said he likes how you describe it so I wrote it into his chart.”

I pretend to rearrange the towels so I don’t have to manage my face. “Consistency helps the nervous system,” I offer, like we’re at a conference and I’m a bullet point.

“Why’d he switch?”

I shrug. “No idea.” Which is true — and also not true. I don’t have the facts, but my gut says there’s more to it. And that unsettles me more than I want to admit.

Jasmin tilts her head, studying me like she can read the thought I’m trying to bury. “Uh-huh,” she says, eyes kind. “You want my last protein bar? It tastes like a cinnamon candle but in a good way.”

“I’m good.” I’m not hungry. I am… something.

My phone lights up with a message from my sister.

How’s the new city, Coach?

She still calls me that.

I thumb a reply: Learning the plays.

I don’t tell her there’s a hole in my Saturday shaped like a person I only know from a table’s distance.

By closing, the eucalyptus has faded to the smell of clean cotton and the faintest bite of disinfectant. I shut down the treatment notes, wash my hands longer than necessary, and tell the mirror over the sink that we’re fine, which is the first sign that maybe we aren’t.

On my way out, Reese is counting cash for petty expenses, lips pursed like the numbers might run away if he doesn’t pin them down with concentration. He glances up. “Good day?”

“Productive,” I say. It’s safe and true.

He nods. “You settling in?”

“Mostly.” I hesitated, then shrugged. “Still figuring out where everything is. I think I’ve been to three different grocery stores this week trying to find one that doesn’t feel like a maze.”

Reese smirked. “You need to hit GreenWise over on Mattison. Smaller than Publix, better produce. Trust me.”

That earned a small laugh from me. “Noted.”

There’s a space where he could ask the other question—Are you okay about the switch?—and I could say the safe thing. He lets it pass. I’m not sure if I’m grateful or annoyed.

Outside, the evening air shifts the hair at the back of my neck. My car is warm in the sun. I sit for a minute before starting it, hands at ten and two like a stereotype, and I’m surprised to feel a sting behind my eyes. I blink it away. I’m not sad, exactly. I’m… aware.

Pain is the body yelling. Awareness is the body clearing its throat. I’d told him that. Now my chest is a throat I can’t seem to clear.

I drive to the community center and run the indoor track until my legs shake. On the third lap, I catch myself counting the beats between breaths the way I counted the beats between our jokes, and I hate that the math is the same.

When I finally stop, sweat dripping into my eyebrows, I press my palms against the cool painted cinderblock and let the wall take my weight for a minute. Then I straighten, slide my hair tie a little tighter, and go again.

The hour passes.

The echo softens.

But it doesn’t go silent.

My Kind of Therapy – Ch. 1.2

Chapter One: The Switch Pt. 2

Carlton

Reese and I went back to college ball — same team, same grind, different positions. He was one of the best point guards I’d ever played with, but more than that, he was the kind of guy who stuck with you long after the season ended.

Over the years, we’d talked about everything: injuries, business moves, life off the court. Relationships too. Reese had a way of listening without judging, which made him easy to be real with.

So when I told him I needed a different therapist, I knew he’d hear me out.

“Everything okay?” he asked, leaning back in his chair. “Michelle’s solid. She’s got a great reputation already, and my clients love her.”

“I know.”

“You mad at her?”

“No.”

“You trying to get under my skin?”

I laughed. “No.”

“It’s me,” I said, running a hand over my face. “She’s great. Amazing even. And I like her — more than I should if I’m trying to keep this professional.”

Reese gave a low chuckle. “You’ve been on her schedule for six months, man. You just noticing?”

I smirked. “Nah. I knew early on. But I’ve been careful. Thing is…I don’t want to be careful anymore. You know she yelled at me last week?”

Reese reached for the fax that just came through, shaking his head. “You probably deserved it.”

“It was a tough week. My contract is up for negotiation. I actually told her what was going on.”

“And…” Reese prodded.

“She sat there and listened. Then she prayed for me.”

That made him pause. His pen tapped against the desk, and he gave me a look that cut deeper than words. “She did what?”

“Prayed for me,” I repeated, leaning back. “Not some quick little ‘hope it works out’ either. She meant it. Like she wanted to cover me. I’ve never had a woman do that for me, Reese. Not once.”

He let out a low whistle, shaking his head. “That explains it.”

“Yeah,” I said, my voice quieter. “And if I’m being real…I think she likes me too. Not just as her client. I see it in the way she looks at me sometimes. The way she remembers the little things I say. She doesn’t push past it, but it’s there. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t notice.”

Reese leaned back, studying me with that long pause that only a friend of years can hold. “CJ, that’s not something you just brush off.”

“Exactly. And that’s why I can’t sit in there, week after week, pretending I don’t feel what I feel. She’s not just helping get me back on the court. She’s reaching places I don’t usually let people touch and I don’t even know how that happened. I can’t cross that line while she’s working on me. She doesn’t deserve that mess, and you don’t either.”

He nodded slowly, reading between the lines. “Alright. I’ll make the switch. But you know she’s gonna notice.”

“That’s the idea,” I said, leaning back with a quiet smile.

My Kind of Therapy Ch. 1

Chapter One – The Switch (Pt. 1)

Michelle

On Mondays, the clinic smells like eucalyptus and warm towels. It’s the kind of clean that feels intentional, like the room is resetting itself for whoever’s brave enough to start over.

Six months ago, I walked in on one of those Mondays, still blinking from a life I’d put on pause for too long. New city, new building with floor-to-ceiling windows, new job I wasn’t sure my heart would cooperate with. My plan was simple: clock in, do excellent work, go home. No detours.

Carlton arrived two days later.

He’s the kind of patient who sits in the lobby like he belongs there — not cocky, just settled. And he’s consistent. Every Wednesday at 4:30, every Saturday at 10. If he’s early, he reads. If he’s on time, he smiles. If he’s late, I’ve never seen it.

“Hey, Michelle,” he says now, voice low enough to make the word feel like it belongs to me.

“Hey, Carlton.” I roll the stool to the table. “How’s the shoulder since Saturday?”

“Better. I actually did the band work you gave me.”

“Look at you following directions,” I tease, and he laughs, real and easy.

There’s a simple joy in people who do what helps them. Somewhere after my last breakup, I forgot what that felt like — being believed, being… tended to. It’s ridiculous that I feel some version of that with a man I only see across a therapy table while cupping his scapula and telling him to breathe. But there it is.

I guide his arm through external rotation, elbow tucked. “Any pain?”

“Not pain. More… awareness.”

I nod. “Awareness is good. Pain is your body yelling. Awareness is your body clearing its throat.”

He grins. “You say things like that and I actually remember to do my homework.”

I shouldn’t notice the way he watches me when I talk. I shouldn’t notice that his laugh lingers in the room after I step out to heat a towel. I shouldn’t notice any of it. But some weeks, the noticing is the only proof that I am not walking through my own life asleep.

We work through soft tissue, scapular stability, the small triumph of a clean abduction arc at ninety degrees. I talk just enough to keep him from bracing. He talks just enough to make the hour feel like it moves on purpose.

“How’s the new schedule treating you?” he asks when I’m flossing the posterior cuff.

“Busy. Reese’s promo brought in a lot of new folks.” Reese Coleman, owner and lead PT, is all brains and big-hearted business. He launched a special rate to help me build a caseload quick. It worked — my calendar looks like a game of Tetris played by someone with excellent reflexes and poor boundaries.

“Good busy?” he prods.

I meet his eyes for a second too long. “It will be.”

He nods like he hears the space I didn’t fill with words.

When the hour’s up, I hand him his updated plan. He lingers by the door, reading it like it’s more than a paper with bullet points.

“Hey,” he says softly, as if trying the word on for a different meaning. “Thank you.”

It’s nothing. And yet, not nothing.

“You’re welcome, Carlton. Same time next week?”

His mouth opens, then closes. “We’ll see.”

The tiniest hitch. The faintest shift. Something in my chest notes it before my brain does. I ignore it. I’m good at that.

I wipe the table, reset the room, and pretend I’m not listening for the echo of his footsteps as he leaves.

The Unexpected: A Quarantine Love Story Pt. 5

I’m not sure what I want right now.

Demetrius lowered the phone from his face, her words resonating like a loud echo in his mind. It was enough to paralyze his ability to respond.

Now four weeks into his furlough, their daily conversations had become a lifeline, weaving into the fabric of his routine. Talking with Michelle felt increasingly natural. He reveled in the ease of their exchanges, amused by their mutual love for sports.

Michelle was incredibly competitive. He didn’t mind that fight in her, especially since he discovered their shared values in family, education, and relationships. What he cherished most was the lilt of excitement in her voice whenever she talked passionately about wanting to build a legacy. It was disarming and genuine

Yet now, her words puzzled him. “What do you mean by that?” he managed to say, his voice strained; the words squeezing past the tightness in his throat. It was a sensation that was all too familiar but not welcomed in this moment.

This tightness wasn’t new. He’s felt it first during his third deployment, when he had to fight in the Afghan War, a visceral knot of anxiety. It resurfaced during a police call that escalated into his first shootout—an unexpected burst of adrenaline laced with fear.

But fear now? Over what? A relationship?

“Demetrius…I mean, all of this seems too good to be true,” she paused. “I’ve been through a lot, and I don’t know if I’m ready to try this again.”

“Try what again? This is our first go round,” he laughed, attempting to dispel the heavy air.

“You are a really great guy, but…”

And there it was. The uncertainty he’d dreaded, hovering like a dark cloud threatening rain. This was what he feared—rejection masked behind gently letdowns.

“Michelle, stop,” Demetrius interrupted, his stomach churning as he scrambled for the right words. With his much needed break from work, he’d gained some perspective. Between grinding through his real estate courses and chats with Michelle and Marcel, he realized he was ready for more. He didn’t just want to be a great guy anymore. He wanted to settle down. He wanted her.

Demetrius switched the phone to speaker and set it on the counter, needing distance from the intimacy of her voice in his ear. This reminded him of the moments before entering a hostile situation at work, how he’d pause to pray, never knowing the outcome. This time the stakes were personal. The thought of possibly hurting her already pained him.

“Don’t you pray?” he asked, hearing the edge in his own voice.

He heard Michelle scoff, defensively, “You know I do.”

He sighed deeply, his voice softening. “Michelle, I care about you a lot. I don’t know if I’ve told you that, but I do, and I never want to hurt you on purpose.” He could almost feel the weight of his bulletproof vest, a familiar preparation for battle. This time, however, the battle was for her heart. He knew casualties could happen, but it was a risk he was willing to take. He was going to help her fight herself and fight for what they both wanted.

“You can pretend that God doesn’t answer prayers if you want to, but I know He does. That’s how I met you and I believe that with everything in me. I understand that this feels overwhelming, but you aren’t the only person who prays.  If you think you’re not worthy of being the answer to someone else’s prayer, that’s not on God—that’s on you.” Demetrius paused before continuing. “You’re an amazingly strong woman, and I know I’m far from perfect, but I need you to figure out why you don’t think you’re worthy of having the things you truly want.”

Demetrius paused, his words hanging in the air like the aftermath of a gunshot. As much as he wanted to retreat and shield himself from potential fallout, he knew standing his ground was critical. Michelle used to play sports. She knew what it was like to take a hard correction. He knew she could take it.

He hoped she could.

The silence that followed was profound, laden with all that had been said—and all that hadn’t. Demetrius stood there frozen, caught in the echo of his own vulnerability. The space seemed very charged, electric, yet fragile as if it could be shattered by another word spoken.

Michelle cleared her throat. At least she was alive. Demetrius wondered if his boldness had cost him.

“I gotta go, Meech.” Michelle’s voice wavered before she disconnected.

It took every ounce of restraint for Demetrius not to call her back. It felt like he was punishing himself, but deep down he knew it was necessary. He had wrestled with his feelings for Michelle since the beginning and his affection for Marcel only made things worse. This kid was incredible, often bringing a smile to his face even in absent thought.

Sometimes Demetrius resented the emotional stoicism his military training instilled in him, but not this time. Despite the ache of uncertainty, he had to press forward. He was determined to finish what he started.

He buried himself in his course for hours, taking detailed notes and seeing how they fit into his long-term plans. Before he realized, Demetrius had fallen asleep on the couch. He probably would’ve slept all night if his phone didn’t ring, but it did.

It was Michelle.

“Can you meet me at Valade Park, by the fire pit?” Demetrius used the light streaming in from his blinds to check his watch; it was 10:13p. He leaned on his elbow, concerned about why she was out so late. Before he would shake off the sleep and voice his thoughts, she added, “Please?”

Demetrius let out a long exhale, an audible testament of the tension swirling inside him. “Yeah”, he replied, his voice a mix of resignation and hope.

The line went dead, and Michelle’s quick departure left a heavy silence. Sitting up fully, he rubbed the back of his neck, looking through the darkness for his keys. His thoughts were a tangled mess, each one a thread pulled tight by anxiety and anticipation.

The air was crisp, hinting at the newness of Spring after it’s breakup with Winter. Valade Park was quiet, little spot near the river. There is a seating area that gives an amazing view of Windsor, especially at night with all the lights. It was there that Demetrius found Michelle.

He approached quietly, his footsteps soft on the well-tended path, his heart pounding louder with each step. This was the first time he had seen Michelle in person since they had met. Her face was bathed in the gentle glow of the ambient light, making her seem almost ethereal.

“I like to come out here to think sometimes. I haven’t been able to visit lately with everything that’s been going on. But when my parents took Marcel, and after our conversation earlier, I thought I would come here.”

“It’s a great spot,” Demetrius replied, his voice low, his fingers tapping nervously against the denim of his jeans. The pause that followed was filled only by the rustling of leaves as the wind picked up. Michelle pulled her jacket tighter, a shiver passing through her body. Watching her visibly fight the cold, and whatever churning inside her, Demetrius couldn’t hold back any longer. He chose directness, a bold leap into this void. “But it’s cold out. Why’d did you ask me here?”

Michelle inhaled sharply, her breath a ghost in the chilly air, as she turned to face him. Her eyes, wide and glistening with unshed tears, met his. “Because I’m in love with you and I don’t want to be.”

“What?” The word escaped in disbelief.

“Meech, I thought I was good by myself. As much as I wanted a relationship, I didn’t think I would be good at it right now. It’s been so long that I got used to it being just Marcel and me. Then you came.” Her voice broke, a crest of emotions threatening to spill over. Elated, Demetrius reached out to touch her shoulder, only to be met with a gentle but firm refusal. “No. I need to get this out. Then you came and shook up everything! Now I can’t sleep until I pray for you. I have to listen to my son rave about you. This is stupid!”

For a moment she fell quiet. Demetrius closed the distance between them, resting his forehead on her, but she pushed him away again.

“My dad knew before I did. He’s probably already told my mom. I’ve tried to protect myself from getting hurt but that hurts worse.” Her voice was a whisper, heavy with defeat and fear.

Unable to resist, Demetrius cupped her face gently and kissed her again. This time, his determination melted her resistance, and she granted him entry. A silent nod that broke her last barrier. His tongue coaxing her lips apart as he confessed his feelings with every touch. He kissed her deeply, and tenderly. Her response was a flood of tears and relief, and yielding.

Then she pulled away. Both working to catch their breath, Michelle jabbed her finger in his chest

“Meech, if this is going to work, you can NOT do that to me again!” Michelle’s voice trembled with anger and vulnerability that caught Demetrius off guard. Her eyes flashed with softness still. She was cute when she was angry.  He couldn’t but laugh, even as she continued, a mix of stern and soft.

“I don’t trust myself, Meech,” she continued, her tone soft. “I made a promise to wait until marriage and…I don’t think I’ll make it if we do that again.”

“Can I at least hug you?” he chuckled, lightening the tension for a moment.

Michelle paused, considering in conflict. A soft laugh escaped before being quickly swallowed by tears. “Yes. But only for like five seconds.”

As Demetrius pulled her close, his arms wrapping around her waist. He rested his chin gently on her forehead. His heart thundered within him. Not about sex, but about her. About life. The game had changed for him. He thought about his dad and how he wished he was still alive. This is where he would bombard him with questions about this. It was the first time in his life where he felt his dreams were within reach.

After a few steady breaths, he leaned back, cupped her face tenderly and kissed her passionately once more.

“I had to, I’m sorry,” he wiped her face. “But I agree with you. I won’t allow you to break promises. Just know it won’t be long before I get to do that again.”

So this is love?

(For the previous part, click here: The Unexpected: A Quarantine Love Story Pt. 4)