"I do appreciate how blunt you are," I admit, peeling the gloves off and dropping them on the mat beside me. "It is refreshing. I am not used to it, because bluntness from Alphas usually comes packaged with arrogance, and you manage to deliver it without the cocky aftertaste. It is a rare combination."
"It is how you execute your words versus your projection of emotion," he says, tilting his head with the quiet confidence of a man offering a philosophy rather than a pickup strategy. "Arrogance projects insecurity outward and calls it dominance. Bluntness is just honesty that skipped the scenic route. One requires an audience. The other requires only the person you are speaking to."
He walks toward the equipment rack along the wall, selecting a pair of spare gloves from the shelf. He examines them briefly, flexes his fingers inside, and begins wrapping his hands with a practiced efficiency that tells me this is not his first time in front of a heavy bag.
"Fix your posture," he says, nodding toward the bag. "And start some reps with me. Your guard has been dropping for at least the last fifteen minutes based on how exhausted your shoulders look, and if you are going to punch things, you are going to punch them correctly."
I arch an eyebrow.
"You kickbox?"
"Do you want the full Raphaël lore?" He turns to face me, one glove raised, his gray eyes carrying the particular gleam of a man who is about to tell a story he enjoys telling. "The story of how I got my ass kicked in the corner streets of Paris and made a personal vow to never get fucked up like that again?"
I gawk at him.
My eyes travel from his face to his shoulders to his arms to his full, imposing, six-foot-three frame that looks like it was assembled in a laboratory dedicated to producing physically flawless human specimens, and I try to reconcile the image of this man getting beaten up by anyone, anywhere, under any circumstances.
"You?" I point at him. "You looked like this and someone still whooped your ass?"
He smirks.
"I looked exactly like this. Still got demolished. Turns out, being tall and attractive does not automatically grant you combat skills. A lesson I learned face-first on a Parisian sidewalk at two in the morning."
I laugh so hard my ribs ache.
"What happened?"
He shrugs with the casual ease of a man who has made peace with his past humiliations and wears them as credentials rather than scars.
"I got drunk. I was twenty. Being a cocky, rude fucker at a bar in the eleventh arrondissement, running my mouth to a group of locals who did not appreciate my attitude or my accent. I was from the south, they were Parisians, and alcohol eliminated the filter that would have normally told me to shut up and drink my beer. Words were exchanged. Insults escalated. I made the critical error of assuming that being an Alpha athlete meant I could handle myself in a street fight, which is the kind of arrogance that gets corrected very quickly by men who grew up fighting in alleys instead of skating on ice."
He mimes the aftermath with his gloved hand.
"Got my ass handed to me. Thoroughly. Woke up to the police shaking me on the pavement, thinking I was some homeless drunk who passed out in the gutter. My face was a mess. My ribs were cracked. My ego was in critical condition.I spent three solid days and nights in pain that made hockey injuries feel like paper cuts, lying in my apartment staring at the ceiling and reconsidering every life choice that led me to that sidewalk."
"Three business days," I repeat, grinning.
"Three business days of agony and introspection. And on day four, I dragged myself to the best MMA and boxing studio in Paris and signed up for a full training program. Nine months later, I was a medal champion in an amateur competition. Clean fights. Proper technique. The discipline I should have learned before I opened my mouth in that bar."
He pauses, and the smirk deepens.
"And then I ran into those same men again. Same bar. Same corner of the eleventh arrondissement. Except this time I was sober, trained, and carrying nine months of combat experience that they did not know about. We stepped out back. I handled the situation with proficiency."
I whistle, low and appreciative, my gloves pausing mid-rep against the bag.
"Well, I should scold you for violence," I say, tilting my head with a mock seriousness that I cannot maintain for more than two seconds. "But I commend you for delivering karma with such theatrical timing. The nine-month revenge arc is cinematic. Netflix would option that."
He laughs, full and resonant, the sound filling the training room with a warmth that his composed exterior rarely reveals.
"It was well deserved. And I was completely sober for the rematch, so I feel I deserve extra praise for executing revenge with a clear mind and functioning motor skills."
I giggle, dropping my guard to press my gloved hand against my sternum, the laughter loosening muscles I did not know were still clenched.
"Okay, Sir Lancelot of the Paris Streets," I say, dipping into a mock curtsy that is absurd given that I am drenched in sweat and wearing borrowed boxing gloves. "I knight thee champion of alleyway justice and terrible bar decisions."
His grin widens.
I laugh again, pausing to catch my breath, my hands braced on my knees while the last tremors of amusement work their way through my ribs. The anger that drove me into this room, the incandescent fury that powered thirty minutes of unsupervised bag work, has retreated to a low hum. Still present. Still warm beneath my sternum. But no longer consuming. No longer the only frequency my body can receive.
