Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
“Delilah,” I say gently.
She jumps.
“Shit—Jon,” she pants. “Didn’t hear you.”
“Clearly,” I mutter, watching her. “It’s late.”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
She shrugs like it’s nothing. Like the dark isn’t getting to her. Like she didn’t come down here to beat herself empty before bed. Her eyes are burning.
Not scared.
Not fragile.
Determined.
“You’re gonna break your wrist,” I say.
“Worth it.”
I step closer, adjusting her stance without thinking. My hand lands on her elbow first, then her shoulder, then the line of her wrist. Familiar. Easy. Dangerous in a way I pretend not to notice. “You’re overextending.”
She smirks, breathless and sweaty and too alive for my peace of mind. “You say that every time.”
“Because you never listen.”
She throws another punch. Perfect this time.
I freeze.
Because in that moment, watching her move with precision and fury and purpose, something hits me square in the chest. Not desire. Not exactly. Something steadier. More ruinous.
She doesn’t need me.
Not to save her or to shield her.
She’s building herself into something unstoppable. Into someone who can survive the kind of world that ate most men I knew alive. Into someone who looks danger in the face and decides to become more dangerous.
And somehow, that makes me want to stay more.
Not to cage her.
To witness it.
To walk beside her while she becomes it.
“You don’t have to prove anything,” I tell her quietly.
She looks at me, sweat-streaked and stubborn and brilliant, chest rising and falling too fast, lower lip caught between her teeth for just a second before she lets it go.
“I’m not,” she says. “I’m just becoming who I am.”
