A ripple of surprised laughter breaks through the room, and Jazmine's expression doesn't change, but I swear I hear her soul sigh.
"Let's transition into Bakasana," she announces and turns to Caleb, who's still trying to catch his breath. "There's a modified version for beginners—"
"I got this," he interrupts, having no idea what he's about to attempt. "How hard can it be?"
The next thirty seconds unfold like a disaster in slow motion. While the rest of us press into the arm balance, Caleb stares at his hands. His mat's turned into a slip-n-slide of sweat, and his attempt to lift his feet involves more grunting than grace.
"What the actual f—" The word cuts off as his arms give out and he goes down, his right wrist taking the brunt of the fall.
"Are you alright?" Jazmine rushes over.
"I'm fine." Caleb tries to push himself up, but he bites back a grimace when he puts weight on his wrist. "Think I bent it wrong."
I'm off my mat before I even realize I'm moving, crouching beside him. The joint's already starting to swell, angry red marks promising impressive bruising later.
"Perhaps you should ice that," Jazmine suggests, though her tone implies she'd really prefer if he left and never came back.
"You're clearly not fine." I stand up, offering my hand. "Come on."
In the hallway, I march him straight to the reception desk, demanding an ice pack from the startled student worker. Caleb leans against the wall, trying to look casual despite being in pain, and soaked in sweat.
"That was so stupid," I say, pressing the ice pack to his wrist a little harder than necessary. "You could've seriously hurt yourself."
"I didn't do it on purpose." He winces, but doesn't pull away from my touch. "Probably not my smoothest move."
"Why are you here?" I ask, softening my grip on the ice pack.
His eyes meet mine, all traces of humor gone. "Because you've been ignoring me and I wanted to see you. Even if it meant falling on my ass in a room full of strangers." He swallows hard. "I know I'm a fuck-up, but I'm trying. I want a chance to show you I can do better."
"You aren't a fuck-up," I say quietly. "You just need a bit of TLC."
He snorts, but there's no real humor in it. "Yeah, well. That little goes a long way with me."
"How's your wrist?" I ask, gentle now as I lift the ice pack to check the swelling.
"Fine. Kinda." He flexes his fingers and tries not to wince.
I inspect it carefully, my touch clinical despite how my skin tingles where it meets his. "Doesn't seem broken, but it'll bruise like hell." I look up at him. "Are you sure you don'twant to go to the ER?"
"I've had worse injuries during high school football," he says, but his voice has gone slightly husky.
"Yeah, when you got steamrolled by that linebacker from Brookside senior year." The memory of the sickening crack of pads colliding, and Caleb crumpled on the field, not moving, hits me. "Broken rib and a concussion. You were out cold for three minutes."
His eyebrows lift. "You remember that?"
"I broke formation and sprinted onto the field with my stupid pom-poms." My cheeks heat at the admission. "Coach Larsson was furious, but I had to make sure you were breathing."
Something shifts in his expression. "I remember waking up to you yelling at the team physician. All wild hair and mascara streaks."
"You scared the hell out of me." The words slip out. "This feels familiar."
"Except this time," his voice drops to that dangerous register that makes my insides twist, "I'm conscious enough to appreciate the view when you fuss over me."
"Alright." Heat creeps up my neck and I step back before I do something stupid. "But I'm still driving you home. Not risking you wrapping the car around a tree with one working hand."
His face lights up with that dangerous grin. "So protective, Shortcake. I'm starting to think you like taking care of me."
"Don't make me take it back."
