Here, it's quiet.
I press a cold water bottle against Brooke’s wrist and watch the muscles in her forearm tense, then slowly loosen. She barely reacts, just a small tightening around her eyes before she forces it down.
“You overdid it again.”
She shakes her head. “I’m good.”
“You’re healing, not invincible.”
“I know I'm not invincible,” she replies. “I want to be ready.”
I study her face. The darkness in her eyes isn’t fading. It is settling in, rooting itself, becoming part of her instead of something she fights.
“I get it,” I say. “But if you tear anything, I’ll tie you to the fucking bed until you learn patience.”
Her eyes flick up to mine. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”
A corner of my mouth lifts despite myself.
She just looks at me, sweat darkened hair clinging to her cheek, her breathing still elevated, that storm sitting right behind her eyes. I hold out my hand.
“Get up.”
She takes it.
I don’t let go right away.
Her palm is warm, already callused from weeks of training, stronger than it used to be.
We move into position again, closer this time. Her body is warm, tight with muscle and adrenaline. She has come so far in two weeks. She hesitates less, she is more in control. Her wrist is still healing, but the way she moves feels like contained violence waiting to break loose.
“Romance” plays low through the speakers, the beat slow and heavy, almost ritualistic.
“Try to disarm me.”
She lunges fast. I grab her wrist and twist, stepping into her space. Our chests collide. Her knee goes for my ribs, and I catch it midair, pinning her leg between mine.
“You let him get this close,” I say, my voice rough, “he’s not here to talk. He’s here to take something.”
She stares up at me, breathless. “I’m not letting anyone take shit.”
I don’t let go.
She doesn’t back down.
She shoves me. I grab her hips and spin her, pressing her back into the padded wall. My body cages hers. Her arms come up between us, gripping my shirt. Our mouths are too close.
“This isn’t training anymore,” she whispers.
“No,” I murmur. “It’s not.”
My hands are on her before my mind catches up. My fingers slip beneath the hem of her tank top. Her skin feels warm and smooth as my palms follow the curve of her waist. Her breath hitches.
That tells me everything.
I should stop. I should remember every boundary I set and every promise I made about patience. I told myself she deserved time.
But desire has been tearing through me for weeks.
