Page 52 of How to Fan the Flames

“I’m not tired.”

Mish, walking past with a crate, says, “That was adorable.”

“I’m slightly warm.”

“You’re red.”

“I’m naturally vivid.”

“Again,” Pippa says, but there is something in her voice now that tells me she is watching properly. Not just enjoying the spectacle. Checking the line between useful and too much.

I hate that I appreciate it.

I also hate that I want to do it right.

I drag the hose again.

Halfway through, my boot catches slightly on the edge of a mat. Not enough to fall. Enough to throw me off. I recover, but not neatly.

“Stop,” Pippa says.

I stop.

“Reset.”

“I’m fine.”

“I said reset.”

There is no heat in it. No drama. Just command.

She steps closer. “Don’t push through bad movement. That’s when people get hurt.”

“I didn’t fall.”

“Do you want praise for nearly falling?”

“No.”

“Then reset.”

I look at her.

She looks back.

I reset.

This is the other thing I learn: Pippa Hart does not need to raise her voice. She has a tone that makes argument feel like a waste of oxygen, and as oxygen has become a topic of personal interest, I choose not to waste it.

We do it again.

Better this time.

She nods once.

Not praise. Not exactly. But something close enough to make me straighten like a fool.

Then she gives me another drill.