The door slams shut behind you with a metallic finality that echoes far too long in the small space.

You don’t turn around at first—you already know who it is.

Of all people.

Him.

A dry laugh leaves him, sharp and humorless. “Of course it’s you.”

You finally look over your shoulder. He’s leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed, eyes narrowed like you’re the last person he ever wanted to be trapped with. Which, to be fair, you are.

“Don’t sound so thrilled,” you mutter, shifting your weight—then immediately regretting it when a sharp ache pulls across your lower back.

He notices. Of course he does. His gaze flickers, quick and assessing, before his expression hardens again like he’s annoyed he even cared enough to look.

“Save the act,” he says. “Whatever you’re planning—”

“I’m not planning anything,” you cut in, a little breathless despite yourself. The pain is worse standing. You press your palm against the wall, trying to ease the tension in your spine.

Silence stretches.

Too long.

Then—“You’re actually hurt.”

It’s not a question. His voice has changed, quieter, rougher at the edges.

You huff. “Congratulations. You’ve discovered basic human perception.”

Another shift of pain steals the rest of your sarcasm. You suck in a breath, shoulders tightening.

And then—footsteps.

Closer.

You stiffen immediately. “Don’t—”

“Relax,” he snaps, but there’s no real bite in it this time. “If I wanted to hurt you, I wouldn’t wait for an excuse.”

That’s… not exactly comforting.

He stops right behind you. You can feel the heat of him before he even touches you—close enough that your breath catches for reasons that have nothing to do with pain.

For a moment, he hesitates.

That’s new.

Then, surprisingly careful, his hand settles lightly at your side—not gripping, not forcing. Just there.

You freeze.

His touch is… gentle.

It doesn’t make sense.

“Where?” he asks, voice lower now. Almost reluctant.

You swallow. “Lower back.”

A pause. Then his hand shifts, sliding just slightly—fingers brushing along your spine until you flinch.

“There,” you whisper before you can stop yourself.

His hand stills.

“…That bad?”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to.

For a second, you expect him to pull away. To make a comment, to mock you, to turn this into something sharp and familiar.

Instead, his other hand comes up—hesitant, like he’s dealing with something fragile and doesn’t quite trust himself with it.

Then, slowly, he presses his palm more firmly against the sore spot.

A quiet gasp slips from you, the tension in your back resisting before—just slightly—giving.

“You’re all knotted up,” he mutters, almost to himself.

There’s a strange focus in the way he moves now. His fingers work carefully, pressing and easing, not rough, not careless—like he’s memorized exactly how much pressure to use without hurting you.

You grip the wall harder.

“This is… weird,” you manage.

“Shut up,” he says automatically—but softer than you’ve ever heard it.

You almost laugh. Almost.

Another press, a slow shift of his hand—and something in your back loosens, the pain dulling just enough to make your knees feel unsteady.

His hand tightens instinctively at your side, steadying you before you can stumble.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moves.

You’re acutely aware of everything—his hand at your waist, the warmth of his chest just behind you, the way his breathing has slowed to match yours.

This close, he doesn’t feel like your enemy.

That might be the most dangerous part.

“…Don’t get used to this,” he murmurs after a moment, though there’s no real conviction in it.

You glance back at him, just slightly. “Wasn’t planning to.”

But neither of you pulls away.

And somehow, that says more than anything else ever has.