Chapter 5 - Back On Her Feet

Rylee

“Before we continue,” he said, “if you want to get strong, you need to eat more protein. Your body will need it to support heavy training. We’ll go grocery shopping after this session.”

“I understand.” I forced the words out and headed back to the gym three days after the attack. Pulling on tight gym clothes felt unbearable—every fabric brush a reminder—but I wanted the routine, the small, steady proof that my life still had shape. I skipped class that morning and avoided Hannah; I didn’t want to drag anyone else into the mess. Only Henry and the campus commission knew the details. They checked in, but I refused to reopen the wound. I needed something else. I needed strength.

Strength training was brutal. Really brutal. For someone just starting out, choosing the heavy path felt either brave or foolish. Two hours in, my muscles screamed, but Henry never hovered or touched me unnecessarily. He let me work, stepped in only when I needed him—lifting the bar from my hands, steadying my back. It was exactly what I needed. He was considerate, a gentleman in a way I hadn’t expected.

Between sets he watched me with that look I’d started to dread and crave in equal measure—concern threaded with something softer. Once, after I finished a particularly brutal set, he sat on the bench opposite and opened a water bottle, then offered it to me with a small, awkward smile.

“You did well today,” he said when we finished.

“It was hard,” I panted.

“Of course it was. It’s supposed to be. And I bet your protein intake is low—that’s why we’re shopping now.”

“Can I have thirty minutes first? To catch my breath... and shower?”

“Sure.”

I timed myself perfectly. When I stepped out, he was already at the doorway, towel draped over his shoulders, the corners of his mouth softening the moment he saw me.

“You’re two minutes late,” he teased, but there was warmth there, not accusation.

I rolled my eyes and bumped his shoulder as we walked to the car. The air between us felt thinner, charged in a way that had nothing to do with lifts and reps.

At Costco he turned shopping into a kind of shorthand care. He loaded the cart with chicken breasts, eggs, Greek yogurt tubs, and big tubs of protein powder—simple, practical things. He considered quick-mix meal prep kits, pre-cooked grains for recovery meals, and even a stack of reusable containers.

“Are you shopping for me or yourself?” I asked when he added a second pack of chicken without looking back. “You didn’t even ask what I want.”

“I didn’t ask,” he admitted, meeting my eyes. “But I picked everything you need.”

He pushed the cart with the same steady, easy grip he used at the bar. When I reached for a jar of almond butter, his fingers brushed mine—quick, accidental, charged—and he smiled like someone who’d been given a small, private gift. It was silly, the way his face lit; I felt a strange, warm place in my chest answer him.

After the grocery store he suggested we grab something quick. I expected grilled chicken or a salad; instead he steered us toward Shake Shack.

“Really? Burger?” I said, incredulous.

“Yeah. But double the protein. And carbs too—you need carbs to function.” He said it like a coach writing a prescription for recovery.

We ate in the car, napkins splayed out, the plastic tray between us. The burger was ridiculous and perfect—juicy, salty, the kind of comfort that actually felt like healing. I closed my eyes at the first bite; something unclenched inside me.

He watched me—the way a person watches a fragile plant return to light. When I laughed at the ridiculousness of it, the sound sounded small at first, then fuller. Henry’s face changed in that instant. There was genuine, almost childish delight in his expression, as if he’d found a lost thing.

“You smiled,” I said, surprised at how sincere my own voice sounded.

“You were the first person I saw smile again,” he said softly, half embarrassed, half proud. “Because of food.” He grinned like a man who’d scored a quiet victory.

For a moment the world narrowed to him and me and the greasy cardboard tray between us. He told a stupid story about a commercial mishap on set and I laughed harder; he laughed with me, and every time my mouth lifted, it felt like a small, internal rescue.

“Thank you,” I said when the burger was gone and my fingers still smelled like salt. “I feel lighter. You did so much for me—I don’t know how to repay you.”

“Don’t,” he said immediately. “Repay me by getting stronger. That’s enough.”

On the drive home the car hummed and the night slid past in streetlight beats. I caught him stealing glances at me—first quick, then longer, as if he were memorizing the curve of my face when the light hit it. Maybe it was my imagination, or maybe it was the way his jaw relaxed when I talked about a stupid little art project, but I felt noticed in a new way: not inspected, not pitying, just… seen.

When we pulled up to my building someone was waiting at the apartment door. My heart skipped and then lurched.

Dad.

Panic pricked up in me—had he flown in? Had he known? I hadn’t told him to come.

Henry braked and killed the engine. He didn’t move to open my door right away; instead he turned to face me, that protective set to his shoulders I’d noticed in the gym and at the crisis center.

“Do you want me to—” he started.

I nodded, because the truth was simple and small and honest: yes. I wanted him there.

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