"Try again."
This time she gets it. Breaks my grip cleanly, steps back into a defensive stance without me having to tell her.
"Good. Now someone grabs you by the shoulders, slams you against a wall. What's your first move?"
"Create space?"
"How?"
She thinks about it, working through the geometry of the scenario. "Head. If they're close enough to slam me into a wall, they're close enough for a headbutt."
"Exactly. But headbutts are risky. You can hurt yourself as much as them. So what else?"
"Knees. Drive a knee into their midsection."
"Or?"
"Groin."
"Or?"
She pauses, then something shifts in her expression. "Palm strike to the nose. Drive up, not straight forward."
"You've been paying attention." I move closer, demonstrating the setup. "They grab you, slam you back." I don't actually slam her, just guide her back against the padded wall with controlled pressure. "Your hands come up between theirs, drive up and out to break contact." I show her slowly, hands moving through the motion without force. "Then palm strike. Fast, brutal, straight to the nose."
We drill it. Over and over, the movements becoming more fluid, her responses getting faster. Each repetition brings us closer together, my hands on her shoulders, her palms against my chest, both of us breathing harder than the exertion warrants.
"One more scenario," I say, though I should call this done. Should send her back to her quarters before this crosses whatever line I'm pretending still exists between us. "Choke hold. Someone gets their hands around your throat."
"Show me."
I move behind her again, hands coming up to her neck. Not squeezing, just demonstrating position, my palms against her throat gently enough that she could breathe, speak, move freely. But the intimacy of the contact is undeniable—my chest against her back, her head tipped slightly back against my shoulder, my breath moving her hair.
"Focus," I tell her, though I'm not sure if I'm talking to her or myself. "You have seconds before you pass out. So you need to react immediately. Tuck your chin—makes it harder for them toget a clean grip. Then reach back, find their face, eyes, anything you can attack. Dig your fingers in, make them let go."
She goes through the motions slowly, her hands coming up to where my face would be if this were a real attack. Her fingers brush my jaw, my cheek, and the contact sends electricity straight down my spine.
"Good," I manage. "Now the other option. Drop your weight again, make yourself heavy, then drive your hips back into them. Use your bodyweight, your center of gravity. Make them work to hold you."
Rachel follows the instruction, dropping her weight, driving her hips back against mine. The movement is pure technique, textbook self-defense, and absolutely nothing about it feels professional.
I release her immediately, step back, and put space between us that does nothing to ease the tension crackling in the air.
"That's enough for today," I say, voice rougher than it should be. "You did well."
"Colton." She turns to face me, and the look in her eyes makes it clear we're done pretending this is just about self-defense. "I'm not fragile. I'm not going to fall apart if you look at me wrong."
"I know."
"Do you? Because you keep treating me like I'm made of glass. Like one wrong move and I'll shatter."
"Rachel—"
"I survived Mateo. I survived the cartel. I survived things that would break most people, and I'm still here. Still standing. Still fighting." She steps closer, closing the distance I just created.
"Rachel," I start, though I have no idea how that sentence ends.
She kisses me.
