What did one say when they finally saw the cause of all their pain? What was the correct reaction? What was the perfect way to handle the situation? How did one become a better person through this?

Because that was what a proper, normal human being did, right? Find new ways to better themselves through the experiences they go through. Surmount problems and grow. Flourish. Use those prior teachings to make the future better.

What a load of Zen Mastery bullshit.

Goddammit, LA was rubbing off on me.

Christopher Beckett's wide eyes and mouth didn't seem to be returning to their usual state anytime soon. So, there went any hopes of him not recognizing me. With the beard—that I had just trimmed to a fancy sharp cut the previous evening before heading to Syama's place—and sort of longish hair, my own mother didn't recognize me when I'd returned home for Clarissa's wedding. But, clearly, my new do didn't faze him.

He saw right through me.

There was a time I thought I could see right through him, too.

Christopher Beckett had his own fair share of changes to boast as well. His auburn hair almost looked brown with how close to his scalp he had it. A few days' worth of dark stubble was smattered across his cheeks and neck. And it could've been the polo he was wearing, but it seemed like he had gotten bigger... Broader. More rugged.

After the quick glance I'd had of his face, I kept my gaze solely on the light skin in the hollow of his throat. I didn't have it in me to look into his eyes. I didn't know what I would find there. And gone were the days where I took risks and ventured into the unknown.

I steeled myself.

Don't panic. Don't panic.

There was absolutely no reason to panic, and untangling my emotions could come later. I had a patient on my hands. Shutting off and doing my job wasn't a novelty to me. There was no reason it had to start being one now.

I entered the room and let the door shut behind me. "Dr Samuel will be here soon. I'm sorry to keep you waiting. In the meantime, I'll just ask you a couple of questions to get to know you better and we can have a quick assessment to further narrow down the problem." I planted myself on the chair in front of the computer, opening his new profile on the app which Marisol must have updated by now, and gestured to the visitors' chairs beside the desk. "Could you please sit here?"

I scanned the basic information displayed in front of me. Name: Christopher J. Beckett. Age: 30. Profession: Hockey Player. Phone Number. Address. Activity Level. Injuries. The plastic covering on the examination table squeaked as he got off, and I resolutely did not turn around. He gingerly sat down on the chair beside, and I cursed all seven hells. This meant we were face to face, and the last thing I needed was to have him, out of all the people in the world, in front of my face.

This was what I got by trying to move on and be slightly healthier. Over the years, my obsessive googling of Christopher Beckett had reduced. The last time I'd checked up on him was when Jaylin was still trying to off himself. These days, he focused more on offing me, so that meant a couple of months had passed since my last check-in. Had I continued my compulsive checking, I wouldn't be blindsided by the fact that Beck was in LA. Why was he even here? Was he now going to be starring in a movie I didn't know about? Did his new partner live here? Did he even have a partner?

Not your business. Not in the slightest.

"So—" I finally looked at him, only to find him gazing down at his hands folded in his lap. "What brings you in today?"

"Um, I had a—" He cleared his throat. "I have some problems with my knee."

Well, obviously. What else did you expect after a fucking femur fracture? "Alright. Left or right or both?"

"Right. A little bit on my left, too." Then, after a brief pause. "I guess that makes it both, then."

I typed in his answers. "I see you had a fracture around ten years back. That's likely to be the primary cause, apart from all the gruelling activity. Even after recovery, because of heavy stress, the pain returns. In your injury history, I only see that listed; are there any others? It will be better if you mention all, be it minor or major. I can imagine playing hockey gives way to a lot of pain."

At that, his eyes shot up to meet mine. I didn't realise how cutting my tone was, especially towards the end. Nor did I realise that I was reeling in a lot of anger. My watch continued to buzz, an annoying little setting that flared up each time my heart rate was even a tad bit abnormal. And with how much anger I was keeping a lid on right now, it was a miracle I didn't combust.

"Neil—"

No. NO!

He didn't have a right to say it like that. Not in that delicate way that he always used to placate me. He had no fucking right.

"Neil, please—"

"Any other injuries, Mr Beckett?" I gritted out.

"I didn't know you worked here. I swear—"

I turned my gaze back to the monitor. "Other injuries?"

"Tristan gave me the number. He said his fiancée's brother worked here. If I'd—Just, please, Neil, believe—"

Stop. Stop. Not now. Not right now. The buzzing continued, and the vibrations carried over my entire left arm.

"If there aren't any other injuries—"

"Neil, listen to me. Please, just listen—" He grabbed my arm, and I lost it.

"NO!" I slammed my palm on the desk. The sound echoed through the crevices between us. For a long time, a ringing filled the air, and I watched as Beck's eyes softened. Those blues turned blurry as tears started to slowly pool at the edges. He looked away, wiping his cheeks on his shoulders, an action that shouldn't have been so familiar. It shouldn't have brought forth the ache in my chest that I never quite knew how to live without.

"I'll go," he whispered and stood up.

"Sit. Down."

"It'll be better if I—"

I slammed my fist on the table and turned to him. "The last thing I need right now is to face my boss and tell him a potential new client has left. You've caused me enough problems, Christopher, and I don't need more." I turned front again, pretending to busy myself by deleting and retyping notes to prevent seeing his reaction. It might have been better to just let him leave and forget this entire interaction ever happened. I would deal with Tristan later for forgetting to tell me the very minute detail that Christopher Beckett was in town and that he referred him to the clinic Beena's brother worked in, very conveniently leaving out the fact that I worked here, too.

Dr Samuel was probably the most easy-going boss I'd ever had, and I knew he wouldn't chew me out. But I didn't miss the way Beck winced when he got off from the examination table. Or how he had to pause and sit down, his knee almost giving out as he slammed into the seat at the last second.

The only way he was leaving from here was after getting a treatment plan in place.

He murmured the answers to the rest of the questionnaire, jaw clenched and punctuated by insufferable sighs.

With the first part of our torture session done, I stood up and straightened the sheet over the examination table. "Come over here, please."

My oh-so-compliant client looked at the table, then at me, and leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms like a petulant child. "No."

What the fuck? "No?"

He shrugged. "No."

"And why the fuck not?" I snapped.

"I'd rather wait for Dr Samuel." He kept his tone even and reasonable, even though his posture was anything but. It made me feel small and like I was the petulant child in this equation.

"Why? You think I'm not good enough?" Before he could respond—"I might not be as experienced as him, but I'll let you know I'm not a fucking noob. Alright? I know what I'm doing here." And under my breath, I muttered, "Fucking ignorant dickhead." I pulled back my chair and planted my ass back on it, meeting his gaze head on and mimicking his pose. "But if you want to wait, then let's fucking wait." Wasn't like I had a life to get back to, or like I had spent the last seven years actively trying to get away from everything related to him.

We sat like that in silence, deliberately avoiding the other's eyes. At least, I was. Questions and insults were at the tip of my tongue, and swallowing them down was equivalent to swallowing swords. Flaming swords. So, keeping mum, it was. And I was happy to keep that up till I could leave, but this fucker had other ideas.

"Neil."

"What?"

"I know you're good." Then, as softly as he said my name—"The best, in my opinion."

"Heh?"

"At your job, I mean."

"And you thought I needed your validation to know that?"

His shoulders sagged, and he turned the other way. "No, I just wanted—Never mind." He took a deep breath. "Neil, I don't want you to touch me."

What a nice way to reunite with your ex. "Don't worry. I'm not planning on it."

"No, no. What I meant was—"

"Don't sweat it."

"Will you just fucking listen?"

I glared at him.

He wasn't fazed. "I meant, I don't want you to touch me here. Not in this way. Not like this. Not when you have so much contempt. The next time you touch me, I want it to be in—"

"Don't!" I yelled. And then lowering my voice. "Don't you fucking dare. There's no next time, you hear me? Once I'm out of this room, that's it. You already made it clear that there was never going to be a you and me. I don't need another fucking reminder."

Beck had his issues, and it was my mistake all those years back for thinking that I could help him through them. This time, I knew better. If he was drowning, I wasn't about to dive in after him.

He shook his head. "I didn't want us to end that way. I didn't want us to end at all."

"A little too late for that, don't you think?" I glanced at the clock. Where the fuck was Samuel? Shutting off and doing my job hour had reached its limit. Before I started screaming and breaking things, someone had better come and relieve me.

"But it didn't matter what I wanted, because at that time it was best for the both of us to separate. It was best that I left. I admit that how I left was another matter."

Rein it in. Rein it in. Oh, fuck it. "And you felt it warranted no discussion? You didn't think I might have an opinion or two on that matter?"

"I knew what you would say—"

"Ah, fantastic. You know best, huh? So, you left when you felt it, and now you're back because you felt it. Meanwhile, I'm just a fucking barbie doll to sit still and accept however you treat me. Am I right?" I wheeled the chair closer to him. "Please, tell me I'm right."

He opened his mouth to answer, and it didn't matter what came out, I was this close to either throwing him or myself through a wall, but the universe saved us both by bringing in the person because of whom I was even stuck in this torture room.

"Ah, Neil." Samuel strolled in like he didn't just prevent a nuclear collision between two catatonic individuals. "Marisol told me I disrupted your lunch break. Sorry about that. You can carry on. I've got it from here."

I stood up and headed towards the door he held open for me. "Thanks, doc."

And then, turning to Beck, he extended a hand. "Christopher Beckett, welcome to LA. Hopefully with you here, our Knights can finally make it to the playoffs."

Knights? As in the Los Angeles Knights? Which meant he was here to stay. Maybe for the long term. Well... Fuck.

Beck's lips twisted into an awkward smile, and his eyes cut to me.

I ignored him, and this time I was the one who walked out. If Beck had any sense or good-will towards me, then he should know to leave me alone. The correct decision here would be for him to find another rehab centre that could cater to his needs. Somewhere far, far away from me. I knew it was selfish of me to hope for this, especially seeing how bad his knees were, but when it came to him, I had the right to be selfish. I wasn't interested in any sort of relationship with him. Not now, not after all I had been through. I was in a decent place and my mechanisms, though a little unhealthy, got me through even my toughest days. He was an inherent obstruction to those mechanisms, and deterrents were the last thing I needed.

Hopefully, by God's grace, this was the last time we ever crossed paths.