I threw the combo again, cleaner.
Devon nodded, then moved on to bark at someone else.
The round kept going, and the longer it went, the more my body settled into the work. It knew the timing, breath, and rhythm, even if my head didn’t know what to do with Keaton suddenly within arm’s reach.
I finished the last combo and stepped back as the buzzer sounded.
“Switch,” Devon instructed.
Keaton dropped his arms, unstrapped the pads, and shoved them toward me without making eye contact.
I caught them and began strapping them on.
He flexed his fingers, rolled his shoulders, and finally looked at my face as he put on his gloves. “You’re really taking that room?”
I met his stare. “Yeah.”
“Round two. Same combo. Pick up the pace,” Devon’s voice cut in.
Keaton set his stance.
I lifted the pads.
“Jab,” Devon called.
Keaton fired it hard.
The pad popped, and I adjusted my stance instinctively.
“Cross.”
He drove it in. Clean. Heavy.
“Hook.”
His hook landed with enough force to make my shoulder tense and my grip tighten on the straps.
I didn’t comment.
I didn’t give him anything.
We went again and again, and he threw every shot hard, like he had something to prove. Not sloppy. Not out of control. Just enough force behind each hit to make it clear he wanted me to feel every single one.
Devon walked behind me. “Rowan, meet the punch. Don’t let your arms be pushed back.”
I adjusted and braced to meet Keaton’s shots.
His attention stayed on the pads, not on me, and it shouldn’t have mattered because he was just another fighter on the other side. Except he wasn’t. He was the kid who used to climb through my window and stay up with me playingBorderlands2half the night. The boy I held in my arms when his world shattered.
And the guy I fell in love with.
Halfway through the round, Devon called out, “Add the low kick. Jab, cross, hook, low kick.”
Keaton fired the jab, cross, and hook, then chopped the low kick into the pad.
My legs stayed planted.
My arms absorbed the impact.
