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He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, one eyebrow quirked in amusement. “Don't stop on my account,” he drawls. “Looks like you've got some great skills.”
I roll my eyes, lowering my fists. “Laugh all you want. But I don't want to be completely helpless if that psycho shows up.”
“You're not powerless, Gemma.” Dylan's grin fades. He crosses the room in two long strides and gathers me in his strong arms. “I won't let anyone hurt you,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my hair.
We embrace for a long moment before he pulls back to look into my eyes. “But those self-defense tutorials can't hurt. Maybe you can show me your moves sometime.”
I playfully smack his chest, the tension broken. “Oh, I'll show you my moves, tough guy.”
Dylan takes my hand and gently turns my wrist, inspecting the red marks where I struck the wall earlier. His expression softens.
“If you're serious about learning some self-defense, I can teach you better than any video.”
“Deal,” I say with a small smile. “Will you go easy on me?”
Dylan chuckles, the sound reverberating through the quiet bedroom. “No promises.”
“Okay, let's start with something basic,” Dylan says. I watch as his large, calloused hands gently guide mine into a proper fist. His touch sends a thrill up my arm despite my attempts to focus on the lesson, not the electricity humming below my skin.
“Remember to put your weight behind the strike and aim for vulnerable areas—eyes, throat, solar plexus.”
Dylan moves into the open space of my bedroom and gestures for me to join him. “First mistake—you're not balanced.”
He places his hands lightly on my hips, adjusting my stance. “Keep your feet shoulder-width apart, knees bent. It gives you stability.”
As he demonstrates a few punches and blocks, I'm struck by how economical and precise his movements are. I try to mimic them but feel hopelessly clumsy and awkward in comparison.
Dylan notices my tense shoulders. “Relax,” he says gently. “We'll take it slow. Fighting should feel smooth and controlled.”
At his reassuring tone, some of the nervous tension eases from my body. With his guidance, I feel myself start to find the proper form. Dylan nods approvingly, the corners of his eyes crinkling.
“Like that. You're a natural.”
Pride blooms in my chest at the praise. He makes me feel capable in a way no one else does.
After a few more reps, Dylan steps back and raises his hands. “Okay. Give me your best shot.”
I take a breath and throw a hook punch. Dylan absorbs it easily.
“C'mon, you can do better than that.”
I narrow my eyes and launch a combo—jab, cross, hook. Dylan deflects them effortlessly, his movements almost lazy.
“My grandma hits harder than that,” he says.
Frustration and competitiveness surge through me. I throw myself into the next punch, putting my weight behind it.
With a deft movement, Dylan catches my arm and uses my momentum to spin me, pulling me back tight against his chest.
“Gotcha,” he murmurs in my ear.
My breathing comes fast and shallow. I'm acutely aware of his hard body pressed against my back, his arm wrapped firmly around me.
Slowly, reluctantly, he releases me and steps away. The ghost of his touch still tingles on my skin.
Then his phone buzzes, shattering the tension. Dylan's demeanor shifts instantly, muscles coiling, senses on high alert. He checks the screen. “Stay here. I need to check something.”
He strides from the room. I hover anxiously in the doorway as he reviews the security system, his brow furrowed.
