“You’re coming home with me this afternoon. No arguments.”
Arden blinked. “What?”
“You heard me. It’s our usual Sunday chaos—glitter, bread, and someone getting irrationally competitive over charades. It’s basically emotional CPR.”
“Penny—”
“My mom’s been dying to meet you. And I promise: no roses, no mysterious tea, no tailored-suit weirdos. A lot of carbs and too many siblings. I mean, it’s just me and Mia, but you get it.”
Arden’s lips twitched.
The thought of Penny’s family, warm and messy and uncomplicated, felt like stepping into sunlight after weeks of storm.
And the alternative?
Sitting alone in the apartment with that crimson monstrosity?
Unbearable.
She sighed. “Okay.”
“I knew you’d come around.” Penny beamed. “But don’t show up with gym injuries. My family’s nosy. They’ll assume you’re a spy or something.”
Arden rolled her eyes and grabbed her gym bag. “I’ll be fine. Want me to grab a pastry or something on the way back?”
“Do you even have to ask?” Penny pressed a hand to her chest, mock-serious. “Oat milk latte, extra foam. And if you find a chocolate croissant? I’ll put you in my will.”
“You already love me,” Arden muttered, heading for the door.
She paused, glancing back.
A smile. Small. Real.
“See you soon.”
Penny waved her off. “Don’t forget the croissant!”
?
The rhythmic thud of fists striking pads. The low murmur of breath and instruction. The sharp crack of controlled hits reverberating off concrete walls.
It all wrapped around Arden likearmor.
No whispers.
No watching eyes.
No games.
Only discipline.
Movement.
Precision.
She moved through each drill with purpose, tension burning off her limbs, her focus narrowing into heat and instinct, channeled through every breath, every strike.
Fierce. Powerful. Controlled.
