I crouch in front of her.
“You’re slowing down on corners,” I say.
“My legs are jelly,” she pants. “You’re a fucking sadist.”
“Yes.”
She laughs weakly.
“Okay, cool, just checking.”
We collapse on the mat side by side afterward, both of us breathing like we just ran from god.
The bond hums steady and hot between us, not feral, not spiking, just… present.
She stares at the ceiling.
“Do you ever get used to this part,” she asks quietly.
“No.”
“Good,” she mutters. “Because if you said yes I was going to hit you with something heavy.”
I close my eyes.
My control is tight and aching and brittle as glass stretched too thin.
This level of proximity.
This much shared adrenaline.
This many chances for instinct to take the wheel.
It’s dangerous.
Not tactically.
Emotionally.
We sit up.
I tape her forearm.
She tapes my jaw.
Our hands brush.
Neither of us pulls away.
“You’re pushing me harder,” she says softly.
“Yes.”
“Because I’m improving.”
“Yes.”
“And because you’re scared.”
