Chapter 9 Ressa #3
"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."
His hand is still on my elbow, warm through the fabric of my sleeve. I should step back, create distance, return to the appropriate space between healer and patient.
Instead I notice how close we're standing. Notice the flecks of darker blue in his eyes and the way his mouth is set in that serious line that somehow makes me want to see him smile again.
Notice that I don't want him to let go.
"You let me win," I say quietly. Not accusation, just realization. "That last round. You could have pinched my arm when I was trapped against the crate."
His expression remains neutral but something in his eyes suggests I'm right. "You created an opening through unconventional tactics. That counts as winning."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the answer you're getting."
The standoff lasts several seconds, both of us watching each other with intensity that has nothing to do with the competition and everything to do with things I'm not ready to examine yet.
Finally he releases my elbow, stepping back to create professional distance. "We should get you off your leg before it decides to stop cooperating entirely."
He's right. My left leg is definitely past seven out of ten now, burning with the kind of deep ache that suggests I'll pay for this evening's exertion tomorrow. My shoulder throbs in time with my pulse and my ribs feel like I've been breathing wrong for hours.
But I finished all the challenges. Participated in a full day of festival activities without fleeing in panic or having a breakdown.
With Falla's help. Always with Falla's help, his patient presence and careful adjustments and knowing when to push and when to give me space.
The realization settles over me like a weight I don't know how to carry—that somewhere between medical checkups and panic attacks and ridiculous festival challenges, I've started relying on him in ways that go beyond healer and patient.
Started noticing him in ways that complicated everything.
Started feeling safe enough to be distracted by things like the shape of his forearms and the warmth of his touch and whether that almost-smile might become real if I figured out how to earn it.
I am in so much trouble.