"I'm fine."
"You're exhausted. There's a difference." He releases the bag, steps around it to face me directly. "Want to learn actual defensive technique or just punish yourself?"
The question hits harder than it should. I wipe sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. "What's the difference?"
"One helps you survive. The other just hurts." Dylan moves to the center of the mats. "Come here. I'll show you basic defensive positioning. How to protect yourself if someone gets close."
The shift in his tone makes this feel less like training and more like an acknowledgment—of the constraints he's built, of the ways he's trying to keep me alive by limiting my options.
I cross to the mats. Stand facing him in the bright overhead lights.
"Most attackers will come at you head-on." Dylan demonstrates, moving forward in slow motion. "They'll use size and aggression to overwhelm you. Your instinct will be to back up. Don't. Move to the side. Create angles. Make them adjust."
He walks through the movement. I mirror it. The mat is solid under my feet.
"Good. Now, if someone grabs your wrist—" His hand closes around my left wrist, grip firm but not painful. "—your first instinct is to pull away. That doesn't work. They're stronger. Instead, rotate toward the grip. Use their leverage against them."
I follow the instruction. Twist toward his hand. Feel the pressure release as the angle changes.
"Exactly. Again."
We drill the movement. Dylan's hands correcting my positioning, adjusting my stance. Each touch professional. Instructional. Nothing more than a teacher ensuring a student learns proper form.
Except every correction brings him closer. Every adjustment puts his body near mine. Every demonstration of leverage and angles creates moments where his breath warms my neck and his chest presses to my back and his hands guide my hips into position.
The air in the training room changes. Gets heavier. Charged with tension that has nothing to do with self-defense.
"If someone pushes you to a wall—" Dylan demonstrates, moving me backward until my shoulders meet concrete. His hand braces beside my head. His body blocks any escape route. "—they think they have control. But you've got options. Knee to the groin. Palm strike to the chin. Or?—"
He stops. His breathing has quickened. Close enough that silver threads through his dark hair catch the overhead lights, that the old scar cutting through his left eyebrow becomes a landmark I could trace with my fingers, that his jaw tightens with whatever internal battle he's fighting.
"Or what?" My voice comes out rougher than intended.
"Or you decide if they're a threat worth fighting."
The words hang between us. Not about self-defense. Not about training. About the tension that's been building since that night in the park when he intercepted my investigation. Since every argument about protection and control. Since this afternoon when he compared keeping me safe to building interrogation rooms.
His hand is still braced beside my head. His body still blocking mine to the wall. But the tension isn't threatening. It's desire wrapped in hesitation, want restrained by uncertainty.
I should step away. Should move back into neutral space and return to professional distance. Should remember that he's my protection detail and I'm the subject he's guarding and mixing those roles creates complications neither of us needs.
Instead, I close the distance and press my lips to his. Softly at first. Testing. His mouth is warm, slightly parted, and for a heartbeat he's completely still. Then his breath catches—a sound that goes straight through me—and his hand slides from the wall to cup my jaw.
The kiss changes. His fingers thread through my hair, grip tightening as his mouth opens against mine. I taste coffee and something darker, feel the scrape of stubble against my chin. Heat floods through me when his tongue touches mine—slow, deliberate, nothing tentative about it now.
My hands find his chest. Muscle shifts under my palms. His heart pounds against my fingertips, matching the rhythm hammering in my own chest. When I press closer, he makes a low sound in his throat that sends electricity down my spine.
His other hand grips my hip, pulls me flush against him. The concrete wall digs into my shoulders but I don't care. Can't care. Not when his mouth is doing things that make coherent thought impossible. Not when tension is beginning to burn into pure want.
I arch into him. He responds by backing me harder against the wall, his body a solid line of heat. His hand slides from my hip to the small of my back, holding me there. The kiss turns hungry—all teeth and tongue and barely controlled need.
When we break apart, we're both breathing hard. His pupils are blown wide, lips wet and slightly swollen. His chest rises and falls against mine.
"This is a bad idea," he says, voice rough.
"Everything about this situation is a bad idea." I'm still pressed to the wall, his body warm and solid. "At least this one feels good."
"Reagan—"
