“Wider.”
“They are wide.”
“They’re not.” I stop behind her. “You want a stable base. Something no one can knock you off of.”
“Maybe if you actually showed me instead of barking orders—”
I hook my foot around her ankle and sweep.
She goes down hard, catching herself on her palms. “Ouch.”
“Lesson one.” I crouch beside her. “Don’t trust anyone. Even the people teaching you.”
“You’re such an asshole.”
“We’ve established that.” I hold out my hand.
She stares at it, probably weighing whether to take it or spit in my face, but she grabs it. Her palm is warm against mine, and when I pull her up, she stumbles forward, landing flat against my chest.
We both freeze.
Her hand presses right over my heartbeat, and I wonder if she can feel how hard it’s suddenly beating.
Great.This is how it starts. With a heartbeat that gives you away through someone else’s palm. Art trusted me with her because I’m supposed to be the one person who’d never cross that line.
I am the one person who would never cross that line.
She pulls her hand back, and I clear my throat.
“Again,” I say. “Feet wider this time.”
She gets into position.
“Drop your shoulders.”
“I don’t even know what that means.”
I reach out and place my hands on her. Her skin is warm through the thin fabric of her tank top, and it takes everything in me to not skim my fingers along her arms, just to see if her body would react.
“Here,” I say, pressing on her shoulders gently. “Loose. Tension keeps you slow and weak.”
Her breathing hitches and she nods.
I give in. My palms slide against her soft skin, fingers grazing the inside of her forearms as I guide her elbows into position.
She trembles, and every single thing I know about distance and discipline and keeping my hands where they belong burns down to one useless thought:Do it again.
Art used to talk about her in the early days. How she’d fall asleep on his shoulder during movies. How she made him feel like the best version of himself. Like his life was a little bit lighter. I remember thinking: good. He deserves that. Someone soft and real who loves him for him, not for his last name.
I step back.
“Throw a punch. Show me what you’ve got, Half-Pint.”
She turns and throws a right hook. Better than before.
“Again. Rotate through your hips.”
She throws another, and I catch her wrist mid-swing, using her momentum to spin her back against my chest. Her body collides with mine, and my arm wraps around her torso, pinning her. My other hand comes up to rest on her throat.