“Umm… never?” I say flatly. “Sweating sucks.”
He laughs like I’m joking.
“Okay, no worries. Everyone starts somewhere,” he says, tone light and reassuring. “Let’s have you warm up on the bike.”
He leads me over, adjusts the seat, and gestures for me to climb on. I start pedaling slowly while he fiddles with the settings.
“There. Start with ten minutes. If it feels too easy or too hard, you can adjust the resistance with these arrow buttons,” he explains, tapping the controls.
“Thanks,” I reply with a massive yawn.
Axel hops on the treadmill next to me. He walks briskly at first, then breaks into a smooth run like it’s nothing.Show-off. I can’t help watching him, hypnotized by how effortless he makes it look. Through the mirror, I catch glimpses of Johnny and Ben practicing self-defense drills. They move with that same quiet confidence. Efficient. Unbothered.
Before I know it, ten minutes are up, and I clamber off the bike, already sweating. Axel tosses me a water bottle, and I gulp it down like a dying plant.
“Okay. Lina, pair up with Johnny,” Ben calls out. “He’ll run you through the basics. Axel, you’re with me.”
Johnny crooks a finger at me, a subtle, cocky invitation, and moves to sit cross-legged on the mats. I follow and mimic his posture, settling in across from him.
He lowers his voice so only I can hear. “Before we start,” he says gently, “I need to know… are your triggers connected to physical contact?”
I just stand there, caught off guard by the directness.
“I don’t want to accidentally trigger your PTSD,” he explains. He looks at me with kindness and understanding, not judgement.
I nod, looking down. The mat suddenly becomes very interesting. I trace my name into it with my finger.
“Yes.”
“How bad are we talking?” he asks, voice soft.
“Bad.”
“Is it all contact?” he clarifies. “Or specific areas? Certain situations?”
He’s so calm, so patient, that it makes the words easier to say, if only slightly.
“I’m okay being touched by people I know and trust,” I murmur. “But it takes time to get there. Until then, I need a heads-up. Every time. You have to tell me exactly what you’re going to do, and where. No surprises.”
Johnny nods slowly, his brow lifting just a little at my honesty, but not in a way that makes me feel embarrassed.
“Okay,” he says. “That makes things a little more complicated, but not impossible. We’ll work with it.”
Relief floods me.
“For today, let’s focus on stance and how to throw aproper punch,” he says. “I won’t touch you unless you give me permission. Deal?”
“Deal.”
I nod appreciatively, and Johnny immediately jumps into the lesson. Even though it was mortifying to lay out my boundaries, I’m thankful he doesn’t test them. Doesn’t question them. Doesn’t make me feel weird for needing them.
He spends the rest of the hour walking me through how to stand properly, how to balance and keep myself grounded, in turn, making me harder to knock over. Then he shows me how to shift my weight while throwing a punch. He corrects my hand positioning and posture with verbal commands, all patient, never getting physical.
By the end of our session, something unfamiliar starts to bloom in my chest. Confidence. A sense of control. A rare sense of accomplishment I’m unaccustomed to feeling.
“Great job this morning! Hit the shower,” Ben calls as we head back into the house.
He splits off toward the master suite on the main level, while Johnny and Axel take the stairs with me.
