She blinks, clearly not what she expected. “What?”
“Basic self-defense. Techniques from resistance training, the kind we use when someone might get grabbed during an extraction.” I keep my voice clinical. “If someone grabs you when I’m not there…”
“You’re literally always there. It’s kind of your whole thing. Lurking. Counting. Being unnecessarily large and intimidating.”
There it is. A flicker of the chaos I know. But muted, like she’s going through the motions.
“I can’t be everywhere. You need to know how to create distance, break a hold, buy time until…”
“Until you arrive to throw them into convenient rocks?” She tries for levity but misses. “I’m more of a scream-and-run type. Very effective. Highly underrated as a defense strategy.”
“And if you can’t run?”
She clutches the coffee mug tighter. “Then I use my other skills. Charm. Bribery. Exceptional luck in finding tactical bananas to save me.”
“None of those work against someone who wants to hurt you.” I let that sink in, watch her remember yesterday’s grabbing hand, the casual assumption of ownership. “That man yesterday. If I hadn’t been there…”
“Fine,” she cuts me off, setting the mug down hard. “Train me. Show me how to defend myself when my tactical banana isn’t around to grab people and make them regret existing.”
“We’ll start with basics. Go change into something you can move in.”
She disappears into her room. When she returns in leggings and a tank top, I have to look away. Count ceiling tiles. The leggings cling to every curve, the tank rides up when she stretches, and I need to remember this is training. Professional. Nothing else.
“First, stance.” I move behind her, and she goes rigid before I even touch her. “Feet wider.”
My hands find her hips to adjust her position. She’s warm through the thin fabric, and when my thumb grazes bare skin where her tank has ridden up, she inhales sharp. The contrast of my callused hands against her soft skin sends heat straight through me.
“Weight centered,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “Like this.”
I nudge her foot with mine, hands still on her hips. She’s trembling slightly. From the contact or the memory of yesterday, I can’t tell.
“I know how to stand,” she says, but her voice cracks.
“You’re standing like someone waiting for an Uber. Stand like someone ready to fight back.”
Another adjustment. My hands linger a second too long. She notices. Of course she notices. I catch a whiff of her lotion. Coconut and something floral. Jasmine, maybe.
“I don’t catch Ubers,” she sniffs, but she accepts the adjustment to her stance.
“Now,” I step back, putting necessary distance between us, “if someone grabs your wrist.”
I extend my hand. She stares at it like it might bite.
“It’s just training,” I say.
“Right. Training.” She offers her wrist.
I wrap my hand around it, firm but not painful. Her pulse races under my thumb, a hummingbird’s beat against my skin.
“Rotate toward my thumb and pull. That’s the weak point of the grip.” I demonstrate the motion slowly. “Try it.”
She yanks randomly, no technique. Still trapped.
“Rotate first. Then pull.”
She tries again. Fails. Her frustration is almost cute.
“Commit to it,” I tell her. “Fast. Decisive.”
