“…You’ve got to be kidding me,” you mutter.

“You always attract trouble,” his voice cuts in behind you.

Of course.

You turn, already irritated—and there he is, standing at the edge of the half-pipe like he owns it, board tucked under one arm, expression carved from pure annoyance.

“Me?” you shoot back. “You’re the one who followed me here.”

“I didn’t follow you,” he says flatly. “I was already here.”

“Liar.”

“Delusional.”

The word snaps between you like a spark.

You step forward—then immediately regret it when your foot lands wrong on the curved ramp. Your balance shifts, your back twinges sharply, and you grab the edge of the half-pipe to steady yourself.

Pain shoots through your lower back, sudden and biting.

You inhale sharply.

He notices.

Of course he does.

His gaze flickers, narrowing slightly—not in concern, not yet. More like calculation.

“…What was that?” he asks.

“Nothing,” you say quickly, straightening—too fast. The motion sends another spike of pain through you and you wince before you can stop it.

He exhales sharply through his nose. “You’re terrible at pretending.”

“Not all of us are used to faking things,” you snap.

Something in his expression tightens—but instead of firing back, his eyes drop briefly to the way your hand presses against your lower back.

“…You’re actually hurt.”

“Congratulations,” you mutter. “You figured it out.”

You push off the ramp, intending to put distance between you—but your back protests immediately. The pain makes your steps uneven, and before you can correct yourself, your foot slips on the smooth concrete.

You don’t fall.

Because his hand catches your arm.

Firm.

Immediate.

You freeze.

So does he.

For a second, neither of you moves—his grip steady, your breath caught somewhere between surprise and something else entirely.

Then he lets go.

Too quickly.

“Watch it,” he mutters.

“I had it handled.”

“You almost ate concrete.”

“I said I had it—”

You cut yourself off as another wave of pain pulls through your back. You suck in a breath, shoulders tensing.

This time, he doesn’t pretend not to see.

“…Where?” he asks, quieter now.

You shake your head. “Don’t.”

“Where.”

It’s not harsh. Not mocking.

Just… insistent.

You hesitate. Then, reluctantly, “Lower back.”

A pause.

Then he steps closer again.

You tense immediately. “What are you doing?”

“If you fall again, it’s going to be worse,” he says. “So either you let me help, or you keep pretending and make it worse.”

You glare at him. “Since when do you care?”

“I don’t,” he says instantly.

Then, after a beat—quieter, almost grudging, “I just don’t feel like dealing with you unconscious.”

You huff. “Charming.”

But you don’t move away.

He notices that too.

Slowly, like he’s expecting you to stop him at any second, his hand lifts—hovering for just a moment near your side before settling lightly at your waist.

Not gripping...

Just there.

Your breath stutters despite yourself.

“This is weird,” you say under your breath.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “I know.”

His other hand moves more carefully, brushing along your back until you flinch.

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

His hand stills, then presses gently into the sore spot.

You inhale sharply—but it’s not pain. Not exactly. More like pressure easing something tight and stubborn.

“…You’re tense,” he murmurs.