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.