My fists connect with satisfying thuds. Each impact sends a jolt up my arm.
It's cold, but the adrenaline warms me fast.
I throw another jab. I shift. Kick.
Breathe.
I continue throwing punches and kicks at the bag, imagining it's my own weakness. My own ridiculous attraction.
You don't need a dangerous distraction.
Kick. Jab. Elbow.
You shouldn’t want to see him.
Cross. Duck. Uppercut.
My brothers would kill me.
I grit my teeth and drive a knee into the bag, twisting hard.
Shift.
Elbow. Cross. Jab. Kick.
Breathe. Knee.
Jab. Jab. Cross.
But the tension won't leave my chest.
It won't leave my head either.
I go back to the party, him watching me across that room. His fingers brushing mine when he handed me that damn napkin.
I punch harder. My muscles burn.
Duck. Weave. Kick.
I lose myself in the rhythm.
Jab. Cross. Hook. Kick. Repeat.
My ponytail whips around with each movement. Beads of sweat run down my chest. I'm not thinking about proper form anymore. I'm just moving, trying to escape the restlessness in my head.
I don't hear the knock at first. It blends with the pounding of my fists against the leather bag. But then it comes again, louder. I freeze mid-punch, my heart suddenly in my throat, breathing heavily.
I pull my right glove off with my teeth, tossing it aside, then pull off the left. My top is soaked through. Strands of hair have escaped my ponytail, sticking to my neck and shoulders.
I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand, the wrap rough on my skin.
I walk to the cottage door barefoot. My skin is damp, and I can feel beads of sweat running down my temples. My heart is hammering in my chest as I unlock the door and pull it open.
He's there again.
Niko Petrou. Standing on my doorstep.
I stop breathing.
