I look at the map. Look at him. Look back at the map.
"They indicate... elevation changes?"
"That was ten minutes ago." He crosses his arms, and the movement stretches his tactical shirt across his chest in a way that's deeply distracting. "Where's your head at?"
Somewhere it definitely shouldn't be. "I'm just tired. Didn't sleep well."
His expression shifts, concern replacing irritation. "Nightmares? Anxiety about the threat?"
"No, I..." I trail off, because I can't exactly tell him I was awake until two in the morning replaying our almost kiss and wondering what would have happened if Sadie hadn't interrupted. "New place. New bed. It takes me a while to adjust."
He studies me for a long moment, those sharp eyes seeing too much. Then he nods.
"We'll take a break. Grab water, walk it off. Reconvene in fifteen for the self defense module."
"Self defense module." I stretch my arms above my head, working out the stiffness from hunching over maps. "Does that mean you're going to teach me to fight?"
"It means I'm going to teach you to survive long enough for help to arrive." His eyes track the movement of my stretch, then snap back to my face. "There's a difference between fighting and escaping."
"Noted." I head toward the water station set up near the obstacle course, very aware of Boone's gaze following me.
Fifteen minutes later, we're standing on a padded mat in an open air training area. Boone has removed his tactical jacket, leaving him in just a fitted black t shirt that does absolutely nothing to hide the muscles beneath. His forearms are bare,and I can see the tattoos I'd only glimpsed before. Dates and coordinates, mapping his military career across his skin.
"The goal of self defense," he says, circling me slowly, "is not to win a fight. It's to create enough space to escape."
"What if I want to win the fight?"
"Then you'll probably die." His voice is flat. Matter of fact. "You're five seven, maybe one forty. Most threats you'd face are going to be bigger, stronger, and trained for violence. The moment you try to engage, you lose the advantage of unpredictability."
I turn to track his movement, keeping him in my line of sight. "So what do I do instead?"
"You hurt them fast, you hurt them where it counts, and you run." He stops directly in front of me. "Eyes, throat, groin. In that order."
"Very romantic."
His mouth twitches. "Romance isn't the goal."
"What is the goal?"
"Keeping you breathing." He moves closer, and suddenly there's barely a foot of space between us. "I'm going to demonstrate some basic techniques. You're going to practice them on me."
"On you?"
"I can take it." There's a challenge in his voice. "The question is whether you can dish it out."
For the next hour, Boone puts his hands on me.
Professionally. Tactically. With the clear purpose of teaching me to defend myself.
It doesn't matter.
Every time his fingers wrap around my wrist to demonstrate an escape technique, my skin burns. Every time he positions himself behind me to show me how to break a chokehold, I'm acutely aware of the heat of his body against my back. Every timehe nods in approval at a move well executed, I want to do it again just to see that look in his eyes.
"Again." He's grabbed my arm, simulating an attacker trying to drag me. "Step into me, not away."
I step into him. His chest is solid against my shoulder, his breath warm against my hair.
"Now strike. Palm heel to the nose."
