Page 62 of Rogue Riders Duet

“Yeah,” he blurts, voice way too high again. Then clears his throat. “Yeah. Fine.”

“Right.” I guide his fists into place. “Even if you don’t want to get into a fight, sometimes you just need to know how to hit something without hurting yourself.” I instruct him to shift his weight to the balls of his feet, then nudge his back leg slightly with mine.

He gasps again.

“What is with you?” I ask, half-amused. “You allergic to contact?”

“No,” he says quickly. “I just… wasn’t expecting that.”

“Expect it. A punch is physical. You think a guy’s going to ask permission before throwing hands?”

He nods, then blows out a breath. “Right.”

“Okay. Watch me.” I step back, take my stance again, and show him a proper jab. Then I do it again, slower. “Now you.”

He mimics it, and it’s not terrible, but it’s not great either.

“You punch like a T-Rex,” I mutter.

“I do not.”

“Short arms with poor rotation and no follow-through.”

He tries again, this time stepping into it a little more. There’s some force behind it, and okay, maybe he’s stronger than he looks, but the form is still off.

I move in behind him and put my hands on his shoulders, adjusting them. “You need to pivot through the hips.” I lower my voice as I guide the movement. “Like that. Tight core, drive from the back leg.”

He stiffens as if I just whispered a death sentence in his ear.

I sigh. “What now?”

“N-nothing.” His face is a little red, though. Ears pink.

What in the world?

I step back and let him go at it again. He punches the air with a little more aggression this time, like he’s angry.

Better.

“Okay, you’re still locking your upper body too much. You’re not going to generate power like that. You’ve got to rotate more.” My fingers push against the front of his hoodie to reposition his upper body.

But the second I make contact with his chest, he flinches like I burned him and jerks back. By the time I blink, he’s three full steps away, eyes wide and locked on me like I’m something dangerous.

I freeze, and my hands hover in midair before I slowly raise them, palms out. “Whoa, mate.”

His mouth opens, then shuts again, before his gaze flicks to the exit, then back to me.

Fuck.

I should have asked for permission to touch him. Now he thinks I’m exactly what they say I am. It hits like a fucking body blow, and something cold cracks open in my chest. Because yeah, I’ve gotten used to the whispers, the side-eyes, the way people pull back like I might snap. But not from him.

God, please don’t let him be afraid of me.

Keeping my movements slow, I lower my hands and start to turn away, but then he blurts out, “It’s not you.”

My jaw tightens. “Sure, it’s not.”

“No, I mean it. It’s not you.” He takes half a step toward me. “It’s a me problem, okay? I don’t like…” he swallows, “… I don’t like people touching my chest. That’s all. It’s not about you.” He’s wide-eyed and breathing hard. “I’m sorry I made you think that.”