"I didn't think anyone else would be up," I said.
"I wasn't." He pushed off the doorframe and walked toward me, his footsteps deliberate on the mat. "The Tether woke me. You've been pushing anxiety for the last hour."
Guilt flickered through me. I'd been trying to keep the connection muted, but apparently I wasn't as good at it as I thought.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"
"Don't apologize." He stopped a few feet away, close enough that I could smell sandalwood and weapon oil. "You're not sleeping. You're not eating. And you've been avoiding me."
“Way to get in there and make it about you!” I said
He tilted his head and smirked.
It wasn't an accusation, just a fact.
"I haven't been avoiding you specifically," I said. "I've been avoiding everyone."
"I noticed." He studied me the way he studied tactical readouts. Assessing. Processing. "Your body doesn't know the mission is over. It's still running on adrenaline, looking for the next threat. That won't stop until you give it somewhere to go."
I let out a breath. "Is that the polite way of saying I look like crap?"
"You look like someone who needs a release." He walked past me to the equipment rack and pulled two sets of training gloves from the hooks. "Not talking, not processing, and not the type of release you think I’m talking about."
“I mean, that would release stress, right?”
“From what I can tell, you have been releasing a lot of stress that way. How’s it working out for you?”
“I don’t have any complaints.”
“It also hasn’t helped you get the sleep you need,” he said.
“To be fair, I wasn’t looking for sleep when I found that release.”
“Release singular?”
“Would you like another Kira special?” I asked.
“Catch,” he said as he tossed a pair of gloves to me.
I caught them on reflex.
"Kaedren, I don't think I'm in any shape to—"
"I'm not asking you to fight." He pulled his own gloves on with practiced efficiency. "I'm asking you to let your body finish what your mind can't."
Something in his voice made me pause. Understanding.
I pulled the gloves on.
He led me through the drills, slowly at first. Footwork that forced me to focus on balance. Breathing exercises timed to movement, inhale on the wind-up, exhale on the strike. Simple combinations against the heavy bag that made my muscles and lungs burn.
He corrected my form without judgment. Shifted my stance with careful hands. Pushed me just hard enough to make me sweat, but not hard enough to overwhelm. When I dropped my elbow on a hook, he adjusted it with a touch. When my feet got sloppy, he tapped my ankle with his foot.
"Harder," he said after a while. "You're holding back."
“Isn’t that usually my line?”
“I’ve never heard you say it to me. Maybe you are thinking of somebody else.”
