I run her through a combo—knee to the thigh, elbow to the ribs, heel to the instep, run. She practices on me, her body moving with growing confidence, movements sharper each time.
She’s stunning like this.
Focused.
Strong.
Not a girl who hides in the back row.
A weapon tuned to her own survival.
“Again,” she pants after we do a full-speed run.
“You’re going to burn out,” I warn.
“One more.”
I sigh but nod.
She steps in to simulate the grab. Her hands land on my shoulders this time instead of my throat, fingers digging in like she means it. Her face is inches from mine, eyes blazing, cheeks flushed. “Try something new,” she says. “Improvise.”
My brain offers exactly one suggestion, and it has nothing to do with martial arts.
I ignore it.
Mostly.
I cover her hands with mine, step in, pivot my hips the way I’m supposed to—except instead of executing the throw, I let the momentum take us in a slightly different direction.
Her back hits the wall with a soft thud.
Her eyes fly wide.
I plant one hand beside her head, the other still wrapped around her wrist, pinning it gently but firmly near the wall.
Her chest rises and falls against mine with each breath.
We’re both breathing harder from the drills.
“This feels less like self-defense,” she says, voice not quite steady.
“It’s a versatile move,” I manage.
There’s a beat where I know I should step back.
Laugh it off.
Reset.
Instead, I just… look at her.
At the way her lips part on a small inhale.
At the flecks of gold in her irises.
At the faint sheen of sweat at her hairline.
The need to kiss her isn’t a spike anymore. It’s a steady, rolling tide that’s been climbing all morning, lapping at my ribs.
