"If I wanted you dead, you'd already be dead," he deadpanned.
"Comforting." I dragged myself to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and chugged half a bottle. My hands shook. My brain was still fizzing from theadrenaline, the proximity, the way every correction of his had felt like an electric shock. "Really makes me want to continue this torture."
"It's not torture."
"Says the guy who's barely sweating."
I sat the bottled on the table next to the sandwich he'd never touched and crossed the space back to where we were practicing. Seven was at the window, backlit by the city. He didn't look at me, but I knew he was watching my approaching reflection in the glass.
"Do we really need to do this again?" I asked.
This time he said, "Attack me for real."
I blinked. "What?"
"Do what you have to."
I hesitated.
He waited.
I rolled my shoulders and lunged for him. He dodged and spun me around. I countered with an elbow to his ribs, but never made it.
He blocked the blow. Only instead of pushing me away, he drew me closer, until we were chest to chest, the top of my head nearly hitting his chin.
"Better," he murmured, uncharacteristically breathless.
I looked up at him. His eyes were darker than usual, pupils wide. He held me there, not tight, but enough to feel the line of his body against mine.
I realized my hands were gripping the front of his shirt. I could feel the thump of his heart, fast as mine.
As if realizing what he was doing, he let go.
I stumbled back with my pulse roaring in my ears. What was happening to me? Why was I feeling all these things?
"Again," he said. The word was a strained whisper.
I forced myself back into fighting mode, tried to make my form perfect, even as my body shook from more than just the effort.
The next move went wrong—he caught me, but I lost my balance and went down. He did too. We were suddenly falling together. The entire scene was playing out in front of me in slow motion as if I wasn't participating in it but observing. As if I was reading a scene in some romance novel.
I clearly saw us dropping to the floor. The fear of the clash with concrete had me desperately grabbing his neck for leverage. My fingers tangled in the tied fabric of his bandana, and I felt it loosening under my grip as we collided with the floor.
His hand cradled my head right before the impact to absorb the shock. My back hit the surface, hard enough to drive the air out of my lungs.
His body landed on top of mine. We were chest to chest. His elbow absorbed some of the shock.
For a second, everything was silent except for the hiss of our breathing, perfectly in sync.
I pulled my hand away.
The bandana shifted.
My heart skipped a beat.
The fabric slipped down his face, revealing the line of his jaw, the edge of his mouth. A faint scar at the corner of his upper lip was the last thing I saw before I shut my eyes.
"I'm not looking," I whispered reverently. "I swear."
