And gods, she’s fast.
Not trained-fast, not disciplined-fast—but instinctive, reckless, brilliant fast, the kind that comes from someone who’s been improvising her entire life because the rules were never written to protect her.
I barely block in time.
She grins, feral. “Hey.”
“Again,” I say, and now I’m smiling too.
We fall into motion.
Not elegant. Not yet.
But alive.
Steel hums. Boots scrape. Breath fogs the chilled air between us. She misses three strikes in a row and swears viciously everytime, and every time I correct her grip, her stance, the angle of her hips, until sweat slicks her hair back from her temples and she’s glaring at me like I personally invented physics.
“You’re enjoying this,” she accuses, dodging a sweep that would’ve taken her knees out.
“I’m enjoying that you’re learning.”
“Liar.”
“Possibly.”
She catches my wrist.
For half a second, we’re locked there, batons crossed, bodies close enough that I can feel her breathing hitch.
She looks up at me, flushed and defiant and glowing with adrenaline.
“Don’t go easy on me,” she says quietly.
“I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
I hesitate.
And she sees it.
“Again,” she says.
This time, I don’t restrain myself.
We move faster, harder, strikes snapping close enough to kiss skin. She stumbles once, recovers without my help. Trips again, curses, grins through it, adapts.
Minutes blur.
Time becomes rhythm.
When we finally break, we’re both panting, leaning against opposite walls, sweat dripping, hearts hammering like we’re still running from something.
She slides down to sit on the floor, laughing breathlessly. “Okay,” she gasps, “I officially hate your species.”
“I’ll put that on the list,” I say, dropping beside her.
She elbows me weakly. “You’re impossible.”
