I swallowed. “Didn’t have time.”

He pressed a little harder, his hands warm, firm, familiar—practiced, like they belonged there.

I wanted to hate it.

But I didn’t.

I hated that I wanted him to keep doing it.

“Did you stretch enough?”

“I stretched plenty,” I groaned. “But Ms. Sanders made us go over the routine six times. Six. Times.”

“That’s what happens when you sign up for this.”

I shot him a look. “You sound like Dad.”

“Always so stubborn,” he muttered, pressing a little harder.

“Always so bossy,” I shot back.

His mouth twitched.

I stared at the top of his head.

“You hate it, don’t you?”

I blinked. “What?”

“My hair.”

I hesitated. Then, stupidly, honestly, quietly, I said, “Yeah.”

His fingers stilled for just a second before he chuckled under his breath and resumed. “Good.”

I frowned. “Good?”

Blake finally looked up at me. “Yeah,” he said, his voice low.

I didn’t know what to do with that.

So I did what I always did. I pushed.

“You still haven’t told me why you did it.”

“I told you—it was getting in the way.”

A lie.

I narrowed my eyes. “Of what?”

He didn’t answer.

I wanted to yank my foot out of his grip and stand, my heart throbbing in protest. But I didn’t move. Because part of me wanted to see how long Blake McHayes would stay there, crouched in front of me, his hands wrapped around my ankle like he was holding something delicate.

“You need to ice it,” he said.

I nodded. “I know.”

He reached out and took my bag, slinging it over his shoulder.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“You say that every time.”

“And yet, you keep doing it.”

He shot me a look that screamed drop it, so I did.

Then, without warning, his hands moved—one bracing my calf, the other sliding up to my back. Before I could protest, he lifted me, his grip firm but careful, like I was something both breakable and immovable all at once.

“Blake—”

“Don’t start,” he muttered, adjusting his hold as he carried me toward the car.

I could’ve fought him, could’ve insisted I was fine, but the truth was, my body had already given up the argument. My muscles ached, my head still felt too heavy from last night, and the warmth of his touch sent something traitorous curling low in my stomach.

Blake walked with steady, unhurried steps, like he wasn’t in any rush to let go, and I hated how much I noticed it.

“I can walk,” I said, mostly just to say something.

Blake hummed, tightening his grip on me. “Sure. And I can let you, but we both know you’re gonna whine about it the whole way.”