I don’t have a claim on her. Doesn’t stop every instinct in my body from acting like I do. It doesn’t stop me from stepping closer, putting myself between her and the worst of the stares. Nothing dramatic. I don’t say a word. But I catch the eye of the guy by the free weights and hold it. Just long enough to make my point.
The guy swallows hard and looks away. His friend follows suit.
Natalia chats with the woman at the front desk while I position myself at her back, arms crossed, projecting enoughdon’t-fuck-with-usenergy to clear a perimeter. By the time she turns around, the audience has found somewhere else to look.
“This way.” She loops her arm through mine, completely oblivious to the territorial nonsense I just pulled. “Let’s go hit something.”
I keep my hand anchored to her spine, guiding her toward the glass-walled studio in the back.
The instructor, a wiry woman named Blaire with forearms that could crack walnuts, is already blasting bass-heavy hip-hop. She runs through a quick demonstration of a basic jab-cross combo, emphasizing stance and guard.
“Partner up,” Blaire calls out over the music. “One on mitts, one on gloves.”
A guy in a cutoff tank materializes next to Natalia before I can blink. Mid-twenties. Too much cologne. A smile so polished it probably gets rehearsed in mirrors. He’s already holding up a pair of mitts like he’s doing her a favor.
“Need a partner?”
Natalia opens her mouth, but I’m already there, my hand settling on her hip. The guy’s eyes drop to my fingers, and his smile flickers.
“She’s got one.”
He lifts both hands, mitts and all, in a quick surrender before backing off. “Alright, man.”
Natalia tilts her head up at me. “I could’ve handled that.”
“Faster my way.”
Heat climbs into her cheeks. She doesn’t shove me away, though. Just gives me a look I can’t quite name before turning to claim a corner for us near the heavy bags.
I slide the curved focus mitts onto my hands. My knuckles are healing but not healed, and there’s no reason to be stupid about it. The leather sits worn and comfortable against my palms.
Blaire walks the room, correcting stances and barking encouragement. By the time she moves past our corner, I’ve already clocked three things Natalia’s doing wrong.
“Keep your guard up,” I say, tapping the mitts together. “Left hand stays glued to your cheek. Leaving an opening gets you hurt.”
The words slide out with zero friction.Huh.Guess I know how to box.
Natalia squares her hips, face scrunched in concentration. She breathes out and throws a right jab. It lands against the mitt with a soft thud, barely enough to register through the padding.
I raise an eyebrow. “That’s it?”
“It’s my first time,” she huffs, brushing a stray hair out of her eyes.
“Princess, I’m wearing pads the size of dinner plates. Stop being polite and hit me.”
Her eyes narrow. The spark of irritation is exactly what I wanted. She steps in, twists her hips, and snaps her fist into the mitt hard enough to push my hand back.
“There we go.” I grin. “Now aim dead center, not near my wrist.”
“Are you teaching this class now?” One eyebrow up, challenge bright in her face.
Before I can answer, she fires another punch square into the sweet spot with enough force to jolt my arm backward. The smack echoes off the glass walls.
I stare at her. She grins, wide and unguarded, so goddamn pleased with herself that I forget how to breathe.
“Well, shit. Fast learner.”
“Why, thank you.” She takes an exaggerated bow, and then we’re back at it. She hits me again. Harder. Faster. We fall into a rhythm, a dance of advance and retreat. My feet move on autopilot, pivoting, shifting weight, anticipating her strikes before she throws them.
