Chapter 9 Ressa #2
Instead I stay exactly where I am, fingers still wrapped around his wrist, his hand still holding mine. Testing something I don't have words for yet.
"Reset?" I ask, and my voice sounds strange to my own ears.
He releases my wrist immediately, stepping back to create the distance I couldn't. His expression remains neutral but something in his eyes suggests he's reassessing, cataloging this interaction like he catalogs symptoms.
I miss his warmth instantly. The thought arrives unbidden and unwelcome.
We circle again, and this time when he reaches for my wrists I don't twist away. I let him catch both, let his fingers close around them in a firm hold that somehow feels different from every other time he's touched me in a medical capacity.
"I win," he says simply.
I just stare at him, not sure what to say. All I know is that feeling his touch settles something in me, and despite my panic attacks, the last few days have been better than the weeks before.
All because of Falla.
"Final challenge!" Drogath's voice cuts between us, and Falla lets go of me, taking two steps back. I hate the space. "The Serpent Strike! Partners will test their defensive reflexes through the ancient art of the pinch!"
I blink, certain I've misheard. "The what?"
"Pinch challenge." Falla's tone suggests he finds this exactly as ridiculous as I do. "Whoever successfully pinches their partner's upper arm first wins the round. First to three points claims victory."
"You're joking."
"I'm not." He gestures toward the other pairs, who are already squaring off with expressions ranging from competitive determination to barely suppressed laughter. "Frostfang believes it tests reflex speed and playful combat awareness."
"It's literally just pinching each other."
"Yes." Something in his voice suggests he's as baffled by this tradition as I am. "Welcome to Drogath's interpretation of human customs."
Saela catches my eye from where she's circling Kai, both of them moving like this is actual sparring rather than a glorified children's game. She grins, mouths something that might be 'help me,' then dodges Kai's reaching hand with practiced ease.
At least I'm not the only one finding this absurd.
"Ready?" Falla raises his hands, palms out, in a ready stance that looks far too serious for what we're about to do.
I mirror his position, trying to focus on the challenge instead of the fact that I can still feel the phantom warmth of his fingers around my wrists. That I'm now hyperaware of every shift in his stance, every adjustment of his weight, in ways that have nothing to do with defensive strategy.
He moves first—a quick darting motion toward my left upper arm. I twist away, my shoulder protesting the sharp movement but obeying anyway. His fingers miss by inches and I counter-strike immediately, reaching for his right arm while he's still recovering.
My fingertips brush his bicep—who knew a healer would be so muscular?—but he sidesteps smoothly, evading the pinch attempt with minimal wasted motion. The brief contact sends heat through my palm that I absolutely do not have time to process right now.
Focus. This is just a game. Just a reflex challenge that means nothing beyond testing coordination and—
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 turned his 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—"
"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 makes my stomach flip in ways that have nothing to do with exertion or injury.