"You're being boring."
The teasing quality in her voice catches me off-guard. This isn't the frightened woman who couldn't stand being in the same room with me weeks ago. This is someone finding confidence in small victories, in moments where her body obeys her will rather than her trauma.
I like this side of her. The realization arrives unwelcome and immediate—I like seeing her push back, seeing her demand to be treated as capable rather than broken.
I increase my speed, committing to the challenge properly. My left hand feints toward her shoulder while my right aims for her ribs, testing whether she can track multiple threats.
She pivots, evading the shoulder strike but leaving herself open for the rib touch. My fingers make contact with her side—brief, light, over before it fully registers.
"One point me," I announce, stepping back to reset.
Ressa's breathing picks up slightly but stays controlled. No panic. Just elevated awareness.
"You cheated with the feint."
"I adapted to your complaint about being slow."
"Fair." She adjusts her stance, distributing weight more evenly. The grimace from her legs is more pronounced now but she doesn't acknowledge it. "Again."
We reset and continue. The second round goes faster—I aim for her left forearm while she tries to reach my shoulder. We both connect simultaneously, her fingers brushing my shoulder a fraction of a second before mine land on her arm.
"Point you," I concede.
"Keep up, old man."
The nickname makes me raise an eyebrow. "Ursik's corrupting you."
"Ursik has excellent taste in insults."
The third exchange happens faster still. Ressa's learning to anticipate my movements, reading the subtle shifts in weight that precede strikes. She evades my first attempt at her shoulder, and I switch directions mid-motion to go for her ribs again.
She blocks with her forearm, then twists to reach for my other shoulder in the same motion. Her fingers graze the marked point before I can pull back.
"Two points me," she says, satisfaction clear in her voice. "One more and I win."
Around us, other pairs continue their matches. Ursik and Kerra's round has devolved into what looks more like actual wrestling than reflex testing, both of them laughing as they grapple. Kai's claimed his third point on Saela, who concedes with good-natured grumbling.
I focus back on Ressa, noting the flush in her cheeks that comes from exertion rather than panic. Her breathing stays elevated but controlled. No signs of deterioration into flashback or freeze response.
She's handling this. Actually handling it.
The final exchange begins with me testing her defensive awareness—multiple feints toward different points to see how she prioritizes threats. She tracks them well, better than I expected for someone without formal combat training.
But her legs betray her. The stiffness she's been hiding manifests as slower pivoting, reduced range of motion in her evasion. I could exploit it easily, land the winning touch and end this round.
Instead I commit to a direct approach toward her left shoulder, giving her clear opportunity to counter. She takes it, ducking under my reach and lunging for my ribs.
Her fingers connect with the marked point firmly, deliberately. Point three. Match won.
"I won." She sounds almost surprised, like she hadn't fully believed victory was possible.
"You did."
No panic attacks. No breakdowns. No early exits or desperate breathing exercises or bitter herbal tea consumed while she shakes through aftershocks of trauma.
Just Ressa, flushed and triumphant, standing in the middle of clan festivities without fear consuming her.
And she looks…beautiful.
