He feints toward my right side and I fall for it completely, shifting my weight to defend. He switches targets mid-motion, his fingers closing on my left upper arm in a quick pinch that's firm enough to count but not hard enough to actually hurt.
"One point me," he announces, releasing immediately and stepping back.
My arm tingles where he touched it. I tell myself it's just the pinch, just residual nerve response, nothing to do with how precise his touch was or how those healer's hands seem to know exactly how much pressure to apply.
"Again," I say, raising my hands back into position.
We circle each other and I try to focus on his movements instead of the shape of his forearms or the way his shoulder-length hair has come completely loose from its bun now, falling around his face in a way that absolutely should not be distracting.
I have never been attracted to an orc before.
But Falla…
I dart in fast, going for his left arm with commitment that sacrifices defense for speed. He blocks with his forearm, deflecting my reach while simultaneously attempting to pinch my extended arm.
I yank back hard enough that something in my ribs pulls wrong. The wince breaks through my concentration and Falla hesitates immediately, his clinical assessment overriding the competition.
That hesitation gives me an opening again. I twist back in, fingers finding his upper arm and pinching quickly before stepping out of range.
"Point me." I can't quite keep the satisfaction from my voice.
His eyebrow raises. "You exploited my medical concern again."
"I adapted to predictable patterns." I flex my fingers, trying not to think about how solid his arm felt under my hand, how the brief contact revealed lean muscle under practical clothing. "That's strategy."
"That's manipulation."
"Says the healer who's been carefully calibrating his speed to my injury limitations this entire time."
The words are edged with the realization that he's been holding back. Not coddling exactly, but adjusting his approach to account for my healing body in ways that are both considerate and slightly insulting.
His expression shifts into something that might be surprise. "You noticed."
"I'm observant too." I mirror his earlier words back at him, watching his mouth twitch toward that almost-smile. "And aware that you've been treating this like physical therapy disguised as competition."
"Because it is physical therapy disguised as competition."
"I know." The admission feels important somehow. "But I'm still going to beat you anyway."
This time the smile breaks through completely—brief but genuine, transforming his usually serious expression into something that does extremely inconvenient things to my already unstable pulse.
I look away quickly, focusing on resetting my stance even though my legs are starting to burn from the exertion and my left shoulder feels like it might be approaching seven out of ten on the pain scale Falla keeps mentally tracking.
Around us, other pairs continue their matches with varying levels of competitiveness. Ursik has somehow turnedhis challenge with Kerra into something that looks partially dangerous, though they are both grinning. Kai catches Saela's arm but she twists into the contact, using his grip for leverage to attempt a counter-pinch that almost succeeds.
I force my attention back to Falla, to the deciding round that should have my complete focus instead of being divided between the challenge and the growing awareness that I'm noticing him in ways that complicate everything.
He's my healer. The one who won't let me suffer alone, who brings me tea and doesn't push when I can't handle answers, who somehow always knows when I'm lying about pain levels. He's helped me through panic attacks and spiraling thoughts and the kind of broken healing that doesn't follow linear progression.
He's seen me at my absolute worst. Has touched my ribs and shoulders and legs in purely clinical contexts, assessing damage and monitoring recovery with professional competence. He's never pushed, never made me feel uncomfortable.
Except now his touch feels different. Now I'm aware of the warmth of his hands, the careful pressure of his fingers, the way he knows exactly where and how to make contact without causing harm.
Now I'm noticing the blue-green of his eyes and the shape of his mouth and how his blunt manner somehow makes me feel safer rather than judged.
Now I'm completely and utterly distracted during what should be a simple reflex game.
"Ressa." His voice pulls me back to the present, to the challenge we're supposed to be completing. Concern edges his tone, that healer's assessment checking for signs of panic or pain. "If you need to stop?—"
