Page 51 of Trust

“Pain tolerance. Discipline. Mental endurance. If you fold every time things get uncomfortable, you’ll never last in a fight.”

For a second, she falters but refuses to break. I count down slowly. Ten more seconds. Five. Three. Done.

She lets herself slide to the floor.

“Nice work,” I say. "Your body wants to stop before it needs to. You didn’t let it." I sink to her eye level.

“You wanna quit.”

It’s a challenge, not a question.

Her eyes narrow, and a resolute ‘No’ leaves her lips.

“Good.” I rise first and extend both hands toward her. She takes them without hesitation and lets me help her up.

She tries. Really tries. But somewhere between the second round of stance drills and basic footwork, her balance goes. Her legs buckle.

I catch her elbow before she hits the ground. “Sit down,” I say.

“I’m fine—”

“You’re not. You did well. But you’re not there yet. You push past this point, you risk injuries, and then you learn nothing.”

Shame and disappointment are etched into her expression.

I crouch next to her. “Sara,” I start, demanding her attention. “You did more today than many people do in a week. You didn’t quit. You showed up. That’s what matters.”

I help her to her feet. She grips my shoulder for balance, and I guide her with a hand under her arm. No flinching this time.

Now that I’ve seen what she can actually take, I know she never had a shot when I grabbed her.

I hate that.

It’s an itch under my skin, a buzz in my teeth. Not guilt. Guilt is a liability. It’s professional disgust. I want her safe from someone like me. Maybe, a very careful maybe that is, I can help make sure no one else ever gets that chance again.

After dinner, I start another fire. The flames catch quickly, and an orange glow spreads across the room. The kind of light that slows everything down. Sara’s already on the far end of the couch when I turn around. I thought she’d retreat to her room for the night. She didn’t, and I’m more than okay with that.

I disappear for a minute to grab the towels I have warming in the oven. Muscle soreness is going to hit her hard tomorrow. No way around it. She powered through more than I anticipated today. More than I think she expected from herself.

As I pass her, I toss one of the warm towels over her legs. She blinks, surprised.

“Helps,” I say simply, putting the other over her shoulders.

She nods, eyes on mine.

While the TV drones on, her body relaxes bit by bit. We don’t really watch anything. I think she’s trying to. Or pretending to. But her head tilts, her body slumps, and eventually her breathing slows into that unmistakable rhythm of sleep. She’s out completely.

I let her rest for a while, watching the shadows shift across her face from the flickering firelight. Her legs are curled beneath the towel, her hand half draped over her stomach. She looks serene, trusting the space around her. That thought settles strangely in my chest.

Around midnight, I lean over and say her name. No reaction.

“Sara,” I try again, a little louder.

Nothing. She’s dead to the world.

Air slips through my nose in a muted laugh. I slide my arms under her, lifting her easily with as little jostling as I can. Her head lolls gently against my shoulder. She mumbles incoherently as I carry her toward the stairs but doesn’t wake.

I pass my own bed on the way to her room as an unwelcome notion throws me off. It‘s right there. Big enough for two and more comfortable than the mattress she’s sleeping on.