“You’re bossy,” I tell her, trying to keep my breathing even.
“You like it,” she says without missing a beat.
She’s not wrong.
Our movements become more fluid. The line between teacher and student blurs. She’ll show me something, then I’ll tweak it, then she’ll test me, then I’ll test her.
We’re close a lot.
Krav Maga doesn’t have much respect for personal space.
My hands circle her wrists, her forearms, her shoulders. Hers land on my chest, my biceps, my ribs.
It’s contact with purpose, not lingering.
But my body doesn’t always care about the distinction.
At one point, I go to demonstrate a defense from a front grab. I tell her to choke me—hands at my throat, fingers curved, gentle pressure.
She hesitates. “I’m not actually going to crush your windpipe, Knight,” she mutters. “I know the difference.”
“Just do it,” I say, trying to sound normal.
She steps in. Her fingers wrap around my throat.
Not tight. Not painful.
Just there.
Every nerve I own sits up and takes notice.
Her body is close enough that I can feel heat radiating off her. Her chest almost touches mine. Her breath fans my face. “Okay,” she says, eyes serious. “Now what, oh wise one?”
It takes a second for my brain to switch fromkiss hertodemonstrate life-saving technique.
I grasp her wrists, stepping to the side, rotating out, using my shoulder to break the line of pressure, pivoting my hips.
She lets go.
I move through the motion mechanically, suddenly very aware of how loud my heartbeat feels in my ears.
“You okay?” she asks.
“Fine,” I lie.
She cocks her head, eyes narrowing. “Your face does that thing when you’re lying.”
“What thing?”
“Gets even more tragically handsome,” she says.
A short, helpless laugh escapes me. “You’re ridiculous,” I say.
“You like that too,” she shoots back.
Also not wrong.
We keep going.
