My body reacts before my brain even notices. I scramble backward like an awkward human crab, making it a foot away before my right wrist buckles out of nowhere.
My elbow crashes into the ground.
I adjust my position, trying to make my panicked retreat look casual.
I fail.
Spectacularly.
At least if I'm judging by the look on his face.
My cheeks are hot enough to light a fire.
Caine's hand hangs suspended between us, frozen in mid-air. His face has transformed from brow-creased concern to wide-eyed bewilderment, like I just sprouted a second head.
He's back to concern, but now it's the kind of concern you give a kid after they faceplant a sidewalk.
"No touching, remember?" I manage, my voice hitting soprano when it's usually a comfortable alto.
For a long moment, he stares at his outstretched hand like it's not even his. Then he slowly brings it back to his side.
Tension thickens between us.
"Right," he mutters. "No touching."
