She’s trying to be sarcastic.
But there’s a gleam in her eye.
Challenge.
I like that.
“All right, warlord,” she says, pulling her curls into a ponytail. “What’s the objective?”
“Move fast. Think faster. Don’t die.”
“Got it. Bridal season rules.”
I suppress a grin.
She starts slow, testing the course.
Hops the first crate with ease. Swivels past the mannequin stand. Drops low to avoid the swinging towel bin I rigged with a weight and string.
She moves like she’s danced through tight spaces her whole life—graceful, reactive, fast. There’s no hesitation in her limbs. Only in her mind.
I can see it. That split-second doubt before each leap.
That’s the gap that gets people killed.
“Again,” I say. “Faster.”
She scowls but resets.
This time, shesprints.
And damn if it isn’t beautiful.
Thirty minutes in,she’s panting, cheeks flushed, curls stuck to her temple, sweat trickling down her neck.
“Water,” she gasps.
I toss her a bottle.
She catches it one-handed, drinks, and nearly chokes. “What the hell is this?”
“Hydration formula. With protein. And electrolytes.”
“Tastes like a gym sock.”
“It builds character.”
“Character can suck it.”
She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, eyes glinting.
“You’re good,” I say.
“Damn right I am.”
“Still sloppy on the back pivot.”
“Still smug on the praise.”
