He locked his eyes on mine. "First step is not to panic."
But I wasn't. I was melting from his touch, from the heat spreading from my neck to my chest and below.
"Tuck your chin," he went on, completely oblivious. "Make a hard shelf with your jaw." He demonstrated, releasing my neck and using his own hands to show the motion. "If you just pull, you'll never break the grip. You have to make the attacker uncomfortable. Hit the nose, the eyes, the groin if you can. Then break the grip with both hands."
I nodded, heart thundering in my chest.
He waited for me to ready myself, then put his hand to my throat again. This time, I managed to collect my bearings. Chin down, both hands up, wedge the thumb, use my body, not my arms.
I brought my hands up, smashed the web of his thumb, and twisted hard to the side.
He let go, but not before squeezing just hard enough to make my head rush.
"Good," he said, stepping back. "Again."
I prepared for the next round. He didn't wait, just came at me with a new angle, a new approach, each time a little different. I broke the hold. He went for it again. I broke it again.
After the fourth or fifth repetition, I was sweating hard. I could smell my own anxiety, the salt and panic of it, and underneath that, somethingelse—his scent, sharp and consuming, a little like ozone after a thunderstorm.
We moved on. He demonstrated the wrist grip, the choke from behind, the bear hug. Each time, he talked me through it, his voice flat and unyielding, but he never touched me longer than he had to.
Except for the time he corrected my stance. I'd planted my left foot wrong, and when I went for the escape, I almost tripped.
He stepped in, caught me by the shoulders, and moved me back into place. His palm was on my hip while he was giving me instructions, but I couldn't concentrate on words, just his hand.
I could feel the warmth of him, the electricity of his body heat, even through the thin cotton of my clothes. My breath caught, and for a second, I forgot what I was supposed to be doing.
He released me, stepped back. "Ready?"
I nodded because my voice suddenly didn't work.
We repeated the drill. I got better. He pressed harder, faster, more real. It didn't feel like a lesson anymore. It felt like something else—something urgent and alive. Like a strange dance, almost a foreplay of some sort.
The physicality of it became a loop, and after a while, I didn't notice the pain or the sweat. I noticed only the thump of my heart, the twitch of his jaw beneath the mask, the way his eyes would go laser-sharp when I surprised him with a good move.
After an hour, we both paused, exhausted. Well, I was. He looked a lot less affected.
Seven straightened up first. "Not bad," he said. "You could survive most things now."
I smiled. "Is that a compliment?"
He shrugged, a tiny movement. "Just stating facts."
"Just admit it, I almost threw you for real."
"You didn't almost throw me," he replied, incredulous.
"I felt you slip," I quipped.
"You felt what I let you feel," he shot back, his voice a little uneven.
"Debatable," I muttered.
We stood there, the air between us thick with something undeclared.
Finally, he said, "Get some water. We're not done yet."
I laughed weakly. "You're actually trying to kill me. That's the real plan, isn't it?"
