9
RESSA
I'm surprised by how good I feel. Not just happy but also…safe.
Not just physically protected, though Falla's presence carries that weight too. But genuinely safe in a way I haven't felt since the Stonevein took me. Safe enough to tease him. Safe enough to push back when he coddles me. Safe enough to let him touch my arm, my shoulder, my ribs without my body deciding it's an attack.
The thought makes my chest tight for entirely different reasons than panic.
"Next challenge!" Drogath's voice booms across the gathering area, pulling me from the revelation that I don't know what to do with. "Partners will demonstrate their grab-and-release reflexes! First to successfully catch and hold their partner's wrists three times claims victory!"
I glance at Falla, expecting to see hesitation or that clinical assessment he wears when he's measuring my mental state. Instead he just looks at me with those blue-green eyes that shouldn't work on green skin but somehow do, waiting for my decision.
"We're doing this one too," I say, because apparently I've discovered stubbornness I didn't know I possessed.
His mouth doesn't quite smile but something in his expression shifts. "If you're certain."
"Stop asking if I'm certain."
"I'll ask until you stop lying about your pain levels."
The comment should irritate me. Would have irritated me weeks ago when every interaction with him felt like negotiating around shattered glass. Instead it pulls something that might be a laugh from my throat.
"My pain levels are manageable."
"That's not the same as 'fine.'"
"Nothing about me is fine." The words come sharp, edged with truth I hadn't meant to speak aloud. "But I'm here anyway, so unless you want me to list every ache and twinge I'm experiencing?—"
"Shoulders, four out of ten. Legs, six out of ten and climbing with exertion. Ribs, minimal unless you twist wrong." He rattles off the assessment like he's reading from notes. "Your left leg favors inward when you're tired, and you grimace every time you put full weight on it."
Heat floods my face. "You're extremely irritating."
"I'm observant." He shifts his stance, raising his hands in a ready position. "And aware that you're about to push yourself past advisable limits because you're too stubborn to admit when something hurts."
"Are we doing this challenge or are you planning to lecture me about medical compliance?"
"Both, apparently."
The format is simple—one partner attempts to grab the other's wrists and hold them for a three-count. The defender tries to evade or break free. First to three successful captures wins.
Around us, other pairs begin their rounds. Ursik lunges at Kerra with zero subtlety, and she sidesteps so fast he nearly face-plants into the dirt. Kai and Saela move with the kind of coordinated grace that comes from actual combat training, their movements more dance than competition.
I focus on Falla, on the controlled stillness he carries even when preparing to move. He doesn't lunge or rush. He waits, watching me with that healer's intensity that sees through every defense I try to construct.
"Are you going to grab me or just stare?"
"Deciding on approach." His weight shifts fractionally. "You're more alert than most patients."
"I'm not your patient right now."
"I suppose you're right. You're my partner." But he moves as he says it, his hands reaching for my wrists with speed that's been carefully calibrated—fast enough to challenge me but not so fast I can't track the motion.
I jerk my arms back, pulling out of range. My shoulder protests the sharp movement but I ignore it, focusing on keeping distance between his hands and my wrists.
He adjusts immediately, changing angle to come at my wrist from the side where my range of motion is slightly better. I twist away but he's already compensated, his fingers closing around my wrist before I can fully evade.
The grip is firm but not crushing. Warm skin against mine, pressure that holds without hurting. He counts aloud—one, two, three—then releases immediately.
