The panic loosens its claws.
“I’m here,” I whisper.
He nods.“Good.May I touch your wrist again?”
“Yes,” I say, firmer this time.
He takes it.“Now,” he says, voice low, teaching-mode back on, “I’m an asshole grabbing you.First move isn’t to yank back.That gives him what he wants, your balance.You step in,” he shifts closer, guiding me, “break his angle, rotate your arm like this—yes, good —and pull free.”
I do it.And it fucking works.Easily.Shock floods me.“Holy shit.”
He grins.“Language.”
“Fuck you,” I shoot back, euphoric.
He laughs, delighted.“There she is.”
We practice.More wrist grips.How to break a chokehold by twisting and striking the soft parts—eyes, throat, groin.How to stomp a foot hard enough to make a man regret every life choice.He never manhandles me.Never surprises me.Every single touch is asked for.Every step is narrated.Every success is praised.
And every time I get something right, something inside me straightens.
Finally, he steps back, mitts dropping to his sides.“Last thing for today,” he says.“Say it.”
“Say what?”
“The sentence you’re allergic to.”
I scowl.“I don’t...”
He interrupts before I can finish the denial.“Olivia.”His tone is gentle steel.“Say it.”
My heart pounds and my mouth goes dry.
“I...”The word claws its way up my throat, past old lies, past his voice in my head telling me I’m worthless, past years of shrinking.“I deserve ...to exist.”
He shakes his head slightly, warmth in his eyes.“More.”
“I deserve ...better,” I say, stronger now.“I deserve to be safe.I deserve...”My voice breaks.“I deserve love that doesn’t hurt.”
Silence falls except for the wind stirring the trees.He drops the mitts completely and closes the distance between us in two slow steps, giving me time to move away if I want.
I don’t.
His knuckles brush my cheek, feather light.“You deserve everything,” he says, voice wrecked.“And if anyone ever tries to tell you different again, I will personally introduce his face to every hard surface in Kidds Beach.”
A startled laugh bubbles out of me, tangled with tears.“That’s not very mature conflict resolution.”
“I’m just a fetus, remember?I’m not very mature,” he says seriously.“I just look like it in uniform.”
We stand there, too close, but not close enough, the air between us crackling with everything neither of us is quite brave enough to do yet.
I lean in a fraction and he freezes.Not because he doesn’t want me, his pupils are blown wide, and jaw tight, but because he’s waiting.Always waiting.Always letting me choose.
It’s intoxicating.And terrifying.I retreat a half step, my pulse racing.
“Shower?”I say weakly.“I probably smell like hospital and existential crisis.”
He smiles, slow and filthy.“You smell like a woman who could absolutely ruin me.”
