You stare at him. “You’re joking.”

He doesn’t smile.

Great.

You turn away again, dragging a hand over your face—and that’s when the pain hits. Sharp, sudden, pulling across your lower back like something twisting under your skin.

You inhale sharply, bracing your hand against the wall.

“Don’t start,” he says immediately, irritation back in his voice. “If this is another one of your—”

You don’t answer.

The silence stretches.

“…Hey.”

It’s quieter now.

You press your forehead briefly against the cool metal, trying to breathe through it. “Just—give me a second.”

Footsteps. Slower this time.

“Turn around.”

“No.”

A beat.

Then, closer—too close. “You’re shaking.”

“I said I’m fine.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

Before you can snap back, his hand closes lightly around your arm—not rough, not forceful, but firm enough to turn you toward him.

The movement pulls at your back and you flinch, a sharp breath slipping out before you can stop it.

He freezes.

Everything about him stills.

“…That’s real,” he mutters, almost to himself.

You laugh weakly. “Disappointed?”

His eyes flick up to yours—something unreadable there. Then his grip loosens, shifting, not letting go but not restraining either.

“Where?” he asks.

You hesitate. You shouldn’t tell him. This is him. Your enemy. The last person you’d ever trust.

Another wave of pain answers for you.

“…Lower back,” you admit, quieter.

For a second, you expect a comment. Something cutting. Something that restores the balance between you.

It doesn’t come.

Instead, his hand moves—slowly, like he’s giving you time to pull away. It slides from your arm to your side, pausing there, waiting.

You don’t stop him.

His touch is careful. Almost… cautious.

“Tell me if it hurts,” he says, voice lower now.

You huff. “That would be a first, wouldn’t it?”

“Just—” He exhales sharply, like he’s irritated with himself. “Just say it.”

Then his fingers shift, pressing lightly along your back.

You tense immediately, but it’s not pain—not exactly. More like pressure against something already aching.

“Here?” he asks.

You shake your head.

A little higher. A little to the side.

Then—

“There,” you breathe, the word slipping out before you can catch it.

His hand stills for a fraction of a second, then presses more firmly.

A soft sound escapes you, half relief, half tension.

“…You’re all locked up,” he murmurs.

“Not helping.”

“Didn’t ask.”

But his tone has lost its edge.

He adjusts his stance, stepping closer behind you. One hand steadies at your waist, grounding you when your balance wavers, while the other works more deliberately now—slow, controlled pressure, easing along the tight muscles in your back.

It’s… precise.

Not random. Not clumsy.

“You’ve done this before,” you say, suspicion threading through your voice.

A pause.

“…I’ve had injuries.”

That’s not really an answer. But it explains enough.

His thumb presses into a particularly tight spot and you suck in a breath, fingers curling against the wall.

“Too much?”

“No—don’t stop.”

The words come out faster than you intended.

He goes very still behind you.

For a moment, you think you’ve crossed some invisible line.

Then his hand moves again—slower now. More deliberate.

The tension in your back begins to loosen, piece by piece, the sharp edges of the pain dulling into something manageable.

You hadn’t realized how bad it was until now.

Your shoulders drop slightly. Your breathing evens out.

Behind you, he notices.

Of course he does.

“…Better?” he asks.