"I'm fine." The automatic response, the one he never believes.
His eyebrow raises but he doesn't call me on the lie this time. Just resets his stance, hands raised in ready position, waiting for me to decide whether to continue.
I raise my own hands, ignoring the way my shoulder protests the movement. Ignoring the fact that my legs are definitely past six out of ten now, climbing toward seven with every minute I stay on my feet. Ignoring everything except the need to prove I can finish what I started.
We circle and I try to focus on strategy, on reading his movements and predicting his approach. But my mind keeps drifting to irrelevant observations—how the afternoon light catches in his hair, how his stance balances readiness with that healer's patience, how he's probably tracking every sign of discomfort I'm trying to hide.
He moves first this time, reaching for my right arm with the kind of direct approach that suggests he's done playing subtle. I twist away but he follows the motion, adjusting trajectory to compensate for my evasion.
I backstep fast, creating distance, but my left leg buckles slightly under the sharp movement. Not collapse, just a brief loss of stability that I recover from immediately.
Falla notices anyway. Of course he notices. His reach falters for a fraction of a second, clinical concern overriding competition.
I take the opening ruthlessly, darting forward while he's hesitating and reaching for his upper arm with both hands to ensure contact. My fingers find solid muscle and pinch quickly, counting the point before stepping back out of range.
"Two points me," I announce, slightly breathless. "Match point."
He studies me with an expression I can't quite read. Assessment mixed with something else, something that makesmy stomach flip in ways that have nothing to do with exertion or injury.
"Your leg is past advisable limits," he observes. But there's something…warmer in the way he says it. Not just as a healer. More like he cares.
"My leg is functional."
"That's not the same as?—"
"I know it's not the same as it being good or even fine." The words are sharp, frustration bleeding through at his constant monitoring. "I know I'm not fine. I know my shoulder hurts and my leg is burning and my ribs pull wrong when I twist. I know you're tracking every grimace and compensatory movement. I know you've been holding back this entire time to avoid pushing me past medical advisability."
I pause, breathing harder than the exertion warrants. "But I'm here anyway. And I'm going to finish this round even if you have opinions about whether I should."
His expression shifts through several emotions too quickly for me to track before settling on something that might be respect. A little amusement. "Understood."
We reset for the final exchange and this time he doesn't hold back. His approach comes fast and direct, no hesitation or calibration for my limitations. Pure reflex challenge the way it was meant to be played.
I barely evade his first attempt, twisting away with speed that makes my shoulder scream protest. He adjusts immediately, switching targets to come at my other arm from an angle that's harder to defend.
I block with my forearm but he's already compensating, his free hand reaching around my defensive position toward my upper arm. I backstep but he follows, closing distance with the kind of controlled aggression that suggests he's done being careful.
My stomach flips, but I ignore it. Ignore the way that there's no fear in my retreat or how my body really reacts to him coming toward me.
My back hits something solid—the edge of a supply crate I didn't account for in my defensive retreat. Trapped, with Falla's reach closing on my arm and nowhere left to evade.
So I don't evade. I duck under his extended arm instead, dropping low enough that my ribs pull wrong and my legs burn in protest. The movement puts me inside his reach, close enough that his attempt to pinch my arm becomes awkward geometry.
My hand finds his upper arm while he's adjusting to my proximity and I pinch hard, counting the point even as I stay crouched in a position my body definitely doesn't appreciate.
"Three points me." The words come breathless and slightly pained. "I win."
I straighten too fast and my vision grays at the edges. Falla's hand finds my elbow immediately, steady pressure that keeps me upright while I wait for the dizziness to pass.
"Ressa—"
"I'm fine." But I don't pull away from his stabilizing grip, don't pretend the near-faint didn't happen. Instead, I let myself enjoy his touch. "Just stood up too quickly."
"You pushed past advisable limits."
"I won."
"You—" He stops, something shifting in his expression. "Yes. You did."
