No lingering contact. No exploitation of the hold. Just the challenge completed and done.
"One point me," he says, stepping back to reset distance.
My wrist tingles where he touched it, and I tell myself it's just heightened awareness from the adrenaline. Nothing to do withhow careful he was, how his calloused fingers knew exactly how much pressure to apply.
Nothing to do with the fact that I didn't panic when he grabbed me.
"Again," I demand, raising my arms into ready position.
This time I don't wait for him to come to me. I dart forward, reaching for his wrists while he's still assessing approach. My fingers brush his right wrist but he pulls back smoothly, evading my attempted grab with practiced ease.
I switch targets mid-motion, going for his left wrist instead. He blocks with his forearm, deflecting my reach while simultaneously attempting to catch my extended arm.
I yank back hard enough that my shoulder screams protest. The grimace breaks through my concentration for a fraction of a second—long enough for Falla to notice, to hesitate in his counter-grab.
That hesitation costs him. I twist back in while he's paused, both hands reaching for his wrists in a move that has zero technique and complete commitment. My fingers close around his right wrist and I count as fast as possible—"One-two-three!"—before he can shake me off.
"Point me," I announce, releasing his wrist and stepping back with more satisfaction than the small victory probably warrants.
Falla's expression does that almost-smile thing again. "You exploited my concern for your shoulder."
"I adapted to your observation skills."
"That's not the same thing."
"Sounds like excuses from someone who's losing."
The almost-smile becomes an actual smile—small, brief, but genuine. It transforms his entire face, softening the blunt edges and clinical assessment into something warm that does extremely inconvenient things to my pulse.
I look away, focusing on the other pairs to avoid examining why that smile affected me. Ursik has Kerra in some kind of hold that looks more affectionate than competitive, both of them laughing as they grapple. Saela's claimed another point on Kai, her smaller size letting her duck under his reach.
When I look back at Falla, he's watching me with an expression I can't quite read. Clinical assessment mixed with something else, something that makes my stomach flip in ways that have nothing to do with nausea.
"Ready for the deciding round?" he asks.
I nod, not trusting my voice to stay steady.
We circle each other this time, both waiting for opening. His patience exceeds mine—healers probably develop that kind of stillness from dealing with frightened patients. I make the first move, feinting toward his right wrist before switching to grab his left.
He sees through the feint easily, catching my extended wrist in a smooth counter-grab that happens too fast for me to prevent. His fingers circle my wrist, warm and firm, and I freeze.
Not panic. Not flashback. Just sudden acute awareness of his skin against mine, of how close we're standing, of how his grip is gentle despite the strength I can feel in his hands.
He counts—one, two, three—then releases, stepping back to give me space I'm not sure I actually want.
"Two points me," he says, voice carefully neutral. "Match point."
My wrist still feels warm where he touched it. I flex my fingers, trying to dispel the sensation while my brain tries to process what that freeze actually was.
Not fear. Something else entirely. Something that involves noticing the lean muscle in his forearms, the way his shoulder-length hair has started escaping its bun from the exertion, howhis healer's hands know exactly where and how to touch without causing harm.
I am in so much trouble.
"Ressa?" His voice carries concern, probably reading my stillness as onset of panic rather than the dawning realization that I'm attracted to him.
To Falla. The orc healer who's seen me at my absolute worst, who checks on me multiple times a week despite my protests, who treats my panic attacks with patient competence and never makes me feel broken even when I'm convinced I am.
"I'm fine." The words come automatically, and his eyebrow raises in that expression that says he knows I'm lying but won't push yet.
