The moment you said “I can’t” over and over like that, Caleb was already moving. The game? Gone. Completely. “Hey… hey,” he cut in, standing up as you paced. His hand caught your wrist. “Stop moving,” he said. “You’re making it worse.” There was no teasing left in him now. Not even a trace.
He guided you back toward the chair, one hand hovering at your back in case you wobbled again. “Sit,” he added, quieter this time. Before you could argue, he reached for something on the side table, napkins first, then your water, then immediately set it aside again with a slight frown.
“Water’s not going to help much,” he muttered. A second later, he was already moving toward the door, cracking it open just enough to speak to someone outside. When he came back, his focus snapped right back to you. “Milk,” he said. “Or yogurt, if they have it.”
He crouched slightly in front of you now, bringing himself closer to your level, eyes scanning your face, tears, flushed skin, the way you were breathing. “…You overdid it,” he added.
His hand came up, hesitated for half a second, then brushed lightly under your eye with his thumb, catching a tear before it could run further. “Breathe through your nose,” he said. “Slow.” A pause. “…You don’t have to prove anything.”
Only after that did his gaze flick briefly to the table, the untouched Thermageddon wing, the mess of the round, and then back to you. “Game’s over,” he decided. “…I’m not picking anything,” he added, like that part didn’t even matter anymore. “Focus on not dying first.”
