Page 76 of Undercover Hearts

With Jenna, those boundaries had blurred from the beginning. Their professional partnership had developed alongside personal connection, neither diminishing the other.

"I should get you settled in the bedroom," Jenna said after a moment, apparently sensing Michelle's fatigue. "You need real rest, not just couch sitting."

The transition to the bedroom created new awkwardness as practical necessities confronted them. Michelle needed help changing into sleep clothes, her range of motion severely limited by both injury and medication. She tried to handle it herself, fumbling one-handed with buttons until Jenna gently intervened.

"Let me help," she said simply.

Michelle stilled, surrendering to the necessity with a nod. Jenna's touch remained neutral, but the intimacy of the moment couldn't be entirely circumvented. This was different: care rather than passion, vulnerability without the equalizing exchange of mutual desire.

"I'm sorry," Michelle murmured, embarrassment heating her cheeks.

"Don't be," Jenna replied, her voice gentle but firm. "There's no score being kept here."

The reassurance eased something in Michelle's chest. As Jenna arranged pillows to support her injured shoulder, Michelle found herself observing the subtle changes in Jenna's expression: the concentration as she ensured comfort, the careful attention that had characterized her from their first meeting.

"Where will you sleep?" Michelle asked as Jenna turned down the covers.

"The couch is fine," Jenna replied. "I've slept on worse."

"The hospital chair," Michelle noted wryly.

"Exactly. Your couch is luxury by comparison."

The moment felt dangerously domestic, reminiscent of quiet evenings in the safe house when their cover relationship had begun shifting into something neither had fully acknowledged.Michelle found herself simultaneously craving and fearing that easiness.

As Jenna arranged medication and water on the nightstand, Michelle caught her hand impulsively. "Thank you. For all of this."

Jenna's fingers curled around hers briefly. "Get some rest. I'll be right outside if you need anything."

After Jenna left, closing the door partway, Michelle stared at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of someone else moving through her apartment: water running in the kitchen, soft footsteps, the subtle domestic symphony she'd forgotten after years of solitude.

Sleep claimed her before she could reach any conclusion about their unspoken conversation, but her final conscious thought was surprisingly clear through the medication haze. For the first time since her divorce, her apartment finally contained something that felt genuinely like home.

Three days into home recovery, Michelle reached her breaking point.

The rubber therapy ball bounced across the kitchen floor, launched by an impulsive, frustrated throw from her good hand. It was a childish gesture, one she immediately regretted, but the small release did nothing to dissipate the pressure building inside her chest.

"I can't do this," she said, more forcefully than she had intended.

Jenna, who had been preparing lunch at the counter, turned calmly. She observed the ball rolling to a stop against the refrigerator, then looked back at Michelle without judgment.

"Can't do what specifically?" she asked, her tone neutral but interested.

The question—so reasonable, so Jenna in its directness—somehow made everything worse. Michelle paced the small kitchen, conscious of Jenna's watchful presence but unable to contain the restless energy coursing through her.

"Any of it," she replied. "The exercises. The dependency. The weakness." Her free hand gestured toward her immobilized arm. "This."

Jenna set down the knife she'd been using, giving Michelle her full attention. "You're making progress."

"Not fast enough." Michelle's frustration found its target. "I can barely dress myself. I can't prepare my own food. I can't even squeeze that damn ball properly."

The complaints sounded petty even to her own ears, but they served as release valves for the deeper fears she couldn't quite articulate.

"Recovery isn't linear," Jenna observed, echoing what the doctors and therapists had repeatedly told them. "The nerve pathways?—"

"I know about the nerve pathways," Michelle interrupted, immediately regretting her sharpness. "I've heard the lectures. But knowing the science doesn't make this any less—" She broke off, searching for the right word.

"Terrifying?"