Fang didn’t think—he just acted.

One second, you were leaning on BoBoiBoy’s shoulder, wincing as he helped you stay upright, and the next, you were being yanked away, an arm hooking around your waist as Fang pulled you to the side, away from the others. The rush of movement made your head spin, and when you blinked up at him, his face was unreadable—except for the way his grip was just a little too tight.

“Could you not manhandle the injured?” you deadpanned, shifting against his hold.

Fang scoffed but didn’t let go. “Yeah? Well, could you not go and get yourself nearly fried next time?” His voice was sharp, but his hands were careful as he guided you to sit on a chunk of rubble. He crouched beside you, eyes flicking over your injuries like he was scanning for damage.

Then, after a beat—too casual, too forced—he muttered, “Why was he the one helping you anyway?”