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I step up to the mirror, just to check, and freeze for a moment. My right hand is caught in the reflection. The knuckles are still red and slightly swollen, with faint scrapes along the edges. Shit, Dante’s definitely going to notice that.

I suck in a breath and tug a quick-dry zip jacket over my T-shirt, sleeves long enough to hide my hands. The fabric doesn’t erase the memory, but it gives me the illusion of control, a barrier between me and what I’m willing to let the man see.

I slide the jacket zipper halfway up, tugging the fabric at my neck to conceal the old scar as well, and mutter under my breath, almost to myself, “Okay… just hang out. Nothing else.”

I step out and notice Dante leaning against the wall down the hall, arms crossed and watching patiently. “Ready?” he asks, voice casual, but I can sense the teasing edge underneath. Shit, what is he planning to do to me?

“Yeah,” I reply, keeping my tone light.

He nods, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Good.”

I follow right behind him, acutely aware of his every movement and the energy he carries. My eyes fall on a boxing ring, illuminated under fluorescent lights. Dante notices immediately, bumping Marcos with his shoulder, gesturing that today’s activities start with a bang before he peers over to me. “You ready to get wild today?”

They grab gloves hanging from a graffitied wall, climbing into the ring, charging the air with intensity. They touch gloves in a brief nod of respect before circling each other. The sound of their footwork against the canvas is sharp and rhythmic, just like a drumbeat.

Marcos moves first, quick on his feet, throwing a jab that Dante slips with effortless precision. He counters with a cross that glances off Marcos’s shoulder, the strike snapping through the air. It’s all clean and controlled, not the kind of fight meant to inflict real pain, more so just to test each other. Or show off.

Still, every hit carries weight, a reminder of what fists can do when aimed with intent.

I stand by the ropes, watching the two of them trade combinations.

Dante steps back, chest rising with an easy rhythm. He flashes a grin at Marcos, then turns toward me. “Your turn, pretty boy.”

My stomach dips. “What?”

He jerks his head toward the ropes. “Come on in. You’re not getting out of this that easily.”

I hesitate, but the teasing lilt in his voice leaves me little room to argue. I climb through the ropes, the mat soft but solid under my feet. Marcos leans back against the far ropes, arms spread in a relaxed stance, watching with mild amusement.

Dante stands beside me now, closer than before. “First things first,” he states, eyes flicking over me. “Take off the jacket. You’ll move better without it.”

I second-guess the request that feels more like a command, before letting my hand linger on the zipper.

If we’re wearing gloves, they’ll be a convenient shield for my bruised knuckles.

“Alright,” I mutter, peeling the jacket off and setting it on the corner post.

Dante steps in front of me. “Feet shoulder-width apart.”

“What about the gloves?” I ask, cocking a brow.

“We’re not fighting just yet,” Dante laughs, pulling off his, and tossing it to the side. “You’ll need training first.”

Ah, fuck. Well, there goes that idea.

He moves around me. Hands find my waist, steady and grounding, as he adjusts the line of my stance.

“Pivot from here,” he says quietly, voice dropping just enough to make it hard to think. “The power starts from your core, not your arms.”

He’s behind me now, hands still on my hips as he guides the motion. He’s too close for comfort, but my body lacks the instinct to propel away.

It’s interesting—and very frustrating—that the extent of comfort I seem to have around him is such a short amount of time.

I hate people. I think that’s been very evident by now, and I keep my circle small. Extremely small. I won’t dare let anyone close until I’m able to fully read them, and even then I feel no need to keep them in my life.

Dante steps back slightly. “Now, swing. Not with full force. Just the motion.” I throw the punch into the air, the movement clean but cautious.

“Good,” he adds. “But balance your weight and shift from your back foot.”