He slips on the padded mitts and lifts them.“These.Not my face.Yet.”
“Yet?”I squeak.
“Motivation,” he says cheerfully.“All right, librarian.Make a fist.”
I curl my fingers instinctively and he groans.
“Not like that,” he says, and gently uncurls my grip.“Thumb outside, not tucked in.You like your thumbs?Keep them.”
“Oh,” I mutter.“Right.Good tip.”
He positions my fist again, knuckles aligned.“Now, when you hit, you’re not slapping.You’re driving through the target, like you’re punching past it.Rotate your hips.Your body is the weapon.Not just your arm.”
“That sounds ...dangerous.”
“That’s the point.”
He lifts the pad.“Whenever you’re ready.Just tap at first.Get used to the contact.”
I tap.It makes a pathetic little pap sound like an unimpressed hamster.
He smiles softly.“Again.”
I hit harder.“Good.Again.”
Something primal wakes up in my chest.Something that remembers slamming cabinet doors in rage I wasn’t allowed to show.Something that remembers staying quiet so I wouldn’t be “too much.”
I punch again.
“Good,” he murmurs, warmth and approval threaded through every word.“Again.Rotate your hips.Breathe with it.”
I do.And it feels ...good.Not violent.Not out of control.But controlled, focused, and necessary.
He shifts pads.“Now, other hand.”
We fall into a rhythm.My breath comes faster and my muscles warm.Sweat prickles at my hairline.He calls small instructions, “guard up,” “elbow in,” “yes, just like that”, until my body stops thinking and just does.
Then he steps closer.Dangerously close.I can feel his body heat, smell soap and skin and that faint metallic tang of the smoke that clings to him no matter how much he showers.
“All right,” he says quietly.“Scenario time.”
“No,” I say immediately.
“Yes,” he counters gently.“Because your body needs to know what to do when your brain shuts down.And it will.That’s normal.But muscle memory can save your life.”
My hands tremble slightly and he sees it.
He softens.“We go slow.You’re in control.You call it off whenever you’re tired or even if you feel uncomfortable.Okay?”
I nod, my throat drier than the Nevada desert.He reaches out and wraps his hand around my wrist.Not tight and not threatening.Just simple contact.
Every nerve in my body lights up anyway before a memory flashes through my mind, another hand on my wrist, yanking, dragging, bruising, and my breath spikes.
“Hey,” Darren says immediately, dropping my wrist and stepping back.Palms up.Non-threatening.“There you are.Look at me.”
I drag my gaze up to his.Brown eyes, warm and steady and anchored on me like he’s not going anywhere.
“You’re here,” he says softly.“In the backyard with the morning sunshine beating down on you.The kids are inside fighting over cartoons and Aunt Dee’s pretending she’s not listening.I’m Darren.You’re Olivia.He’s not here.”
