Halfway through the second song, he stumbled.
Nothing dramatic. His left foot slipped on a pivot. He caught himself and continued.
I watched him compensating afterwards. Weight shifted right. Protecting the left ankle.
When they broke, I crossed the stage. Something flickered across his face, awareness and desire.
"Can I talk to you?"
"Of course."
"You're hurt."
"It's fine."
"You're compensating. That makes you vulnerable. Sit down."
He hesitated. Then sat on an equipment case.
I crouched. Eye-level. Close. "May I?"
His breath caught audibly. "Yes."
I unlaced his sneaker carefully. Removed it and the sock. Ankle slightly swollen, old injury from chronic stress.
I wrapped my fingers around his ankle. Skin warm. The pulse beneath my thumb was rapid and strong.
Heat shot through my entire body. Immediate. Visceral. My awareness narrowed to where my skin met his.
I wanted to slide my hands higher. Know what reactions I could pull from him.
"How long?" Voice rough.
"A few weeks."
"You need support. Wait here."
I found the medic. Got compression tape and pre-wrap.
He sat exactly where I'd left him. Waiting. Trusting.
I knelt. "This will be tight. Tell me if it's too much."
"Okay."
Pre-wrap first, and then compression tape, a figure-eight pattern, maintaining stability.
His calf trembled, and his breathing shifted, sightly uneven.
I became hyperaware of every contact point. The warmth. The smoothness. His body responded with tells he couldn't control.
My body reacted too. Pulse elevated. Skin extra-sensitive. Tightness low in my stomach.
I forced focus. Finished the wrap. Released him before I could do something we'd regret.
"How does that feel?"
"Better. Secure."
