"The headbutt comes from here." He released me and turned me to face him, tapping his forehead. "Hardest part of your skull. Aim for the nose, the orbital bone. It's ugly, but it works."
"Show me."
He did, in slow motion—the setup, the weight transfer, the explosive forward motion. I mirrored it, feeling the violence coiled in the technique.
"Elbows." He demonstrated next. "Close range, when there's no room to punch. Here?—"
He positioned me, adjusted my stance, his hands firm on my shoulders. The contact was professional, technical, but my skin burned wherever he touched.
"Drive from the hip. Not the arm. The power comes from here."
His hand pressed against my hip, correcting my position. I threw the elbow, felt the difference.
"Better. Again."
We drilled. Elbows, headbutts, knee strikes, all the brutal tools that Quantico had called "inappropriate force" and Tank called survival. His hands were on me constantly—correcting, adjusting, guiding—and mine were on him, showing him the mechanics of locks and chokes and joint manipulations.
The contact became more sustained. The heat between us built, layer by layer, until the air itself felt thick with it.
"Again." Tank's voice was rough. "Full speed this time."
We reset. And this time, neither of us held back.
The fight became something else—not violence, not quite, but something raw and honest that words couldn't capture. Every hit was a question; every block was an answer. We moved together like we'd been doing this for years, anticipating, responding, two bodies learning each other's language through the oldest conversation there was.
He shot for a takedown. I sprawled, caught his neck, tried to sink a choke. He powered out of it, got his arms around my waist, and drove me backward onto the mat.
I hit the ground hard, his weight coming down on top of me. I tried to scramble, to get my guard up, but he was too fast—pinning my wrists above my head, his hips settling between my thighs, his body covering mine completely.
We froze.
His face was inches from mine. I could see every detail—the sweat beading on his forehead, the darkness of his eyes, the rapid pulse beating in his throat. His breath was hot against my lips, coming in harsh gasps that matched my own.
His grip on my wrists loosened. His weight shifted, pressing down in a way that had nothing to do with combat.
"Tyler." My name in his mouth sounded like a prayer.
"I'm right here."
His eyes dropped to my lips. I saw the want there, naked and undisguised, the same want that had driven him to kiss me in the garage. His hips shiftedagain, and I felt the evidence of what this was doing to him, hard against my thigh.
I didn't move. Didn't push. Just lay there beneath him, letting him decide.
He leaned closer. Close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating off his skin, could smell the salt of his sweat and the heat of his want. His lips brushed mine, barely a touch, a question rather than a kiss.
Then he pulled back.
Released my wrists. Rolled off me. Got to his feet without meeting my eyes.
"I can't." His voice was rough, almost broken. "I'm sorry. I can't."
He grabbed his shirt from the floor and walked out.
Again.
I lay on the mat for a long time after he left.
The ceiling was gray and water-stained, the kind of industrial ugliness that shouldn't have held any interest but became fascinating when you couldn't bear to think about anything else. My body was still humming with adrenaline and want, the phantom weight of him pressed against me like a bruise.
