I swing again, putting more force behind it.
He catches my wrist mid-punch, holding it between us. “You’re pulling back. Why?”
“Because hitting people is wrong?”
“So is dying.” He releases my wrist. “Again.”
“Julien—”
“What are you afraid of?” He moves closer, invading my space. “That you’ll hurt me? I’ve been shot, stabbed, blown up. Your fist isn’t going to break me.”
“I just?—”
“You just what?” Closer still. “You just want to be the good girl who never causes problems? Never makes anyone uncomfortable? Never fights back?”
Heat surges through me, anger burning bright. “That’s not fair.”
“Life’s not fair.” He’s in my face now, voice dropping to that dangerous register that makes my skin prickle. “Your father proved that. The world ending proved that. So stop being polite and hit me.”
My fist flies before I think about it, almost connecting with his chest before he palms it, stumbling back a step.
“Better.” A smile ghosts across his lips. “Again.”
I do. Each punch lands harder than the last, weeks of frustration pouring out through my knuckles.
“Good.” He catches my next punch, holding my fist against his sternum. “Feel that? That’s real. That’s you fighting back.”
I’m breathing hard, sweat beading along my hairline. My knuckles throb, probably bruised, but I feel… alive. Present. Like I’ve been sleepwalking and just woke up.
“Now back to our routine.” He releases my hand, backing up two steps. “Defend yourself.”
He moves forward, arm extending in a punch toward my face. I throw my hands up, but he goes around them, tapping my cheek with his knuckles.
“Dead,” he says.
“I’m trying?—”
“Try harder.” He resets. “Again.”
We do it again. And again. And again. He finds an opening every time, slipping past my defenses like they’re made of paper. My arms ache. My shoulders burn. Frustration builds with every failure until I want to scream. It’s clear that the training wheels are off today.
“This is pointless.” I drop my hands. “I can’t do this.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“What’s the difference?”
“Can’t means impossible. Won’t means you’re giving up.” He steps closer, and I’m not sure he’s still talking about fighting. “Which is it?” He swings again, and I miss the block, his palm stopping inches from my ribs. “You run from everything. Even from this.”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
“For how long?”
He comes at me again, and this time I don’t think. Just react. My forearm shoots up, blocking his punch, my other hand coming around to strike his ribs.
Neither of us moves.
My chest heaves, hair falling loose from its braid. “I did it.”
