Witnessing.
“Reset,” he says calmly, already stepping back to his mark.
Heat floods her face. Not from exertion—from the knowledge that he felt that hesitation ripple through her body like a signal flare and used it to his advantage with little more than a bump.
She steps back to her line.
Draws breath.
Again.
He comes faster this time.
No warning.
No pause for anticipation to bloom into strategy.
Just motion.
This time she doesn’t wait for him to reach her. She moves first—stepping forward, shoulder angled, intending to drive into his center mass before he can establish full momentum.
But she over-commits.
He pivots, fluid as water slipping around stone, and her forward drive meets nothing but empty space. Her foot lands too hard, too far. Her balance pitches forward. His palm presses lightly between her shoulder blades—not a strike, not force—just guidance.
Enough to send her stumbling backward.
Fuck.
Her ribs scream in agony. But she refuses to make a sound. To acquiesce. So she sucks in a sharp hiss—that’s all she’ll allow.
Silence detonates in the clearing.
She freezes.
The dirt behind her heel is unmistakable.
Conceded ground.
Fuck!
Her pulse roars in her ears.
Teddy doesn’t gloat. Doesn’t scold. He simply walks past her and redraws the line with a drag of his boot, restoring the boundary she crossed.
“Your enemy does not need strength if you surrender position yourself,” he says, voice carrying easily across the ranks in instruction. “Momentum without structure is collapse. Not courage.”
Her jaw tightens.
He returns to his place.
“Again.”
They move.
Again.
And again.
