I strip off my jacket and toss it to one side—her eyes track the movement and linger a beat too long.
“Try to kill me.”
She doesn’t hesitate—lunges, fast but predictable. I catch the angle of her wrist before she’s halfway through the motion, twist it sharply, and sweep her legs out. She hits the mat with a breathless thud.
“Dead,” I say, calm as ever. “Again.”
She grits her teeth, bounces on the balls of her feet, trying to shake off the sting. Warming up like we’re just getting started.
Good.
The next attack comes from the other side—an overhead strike, too bold, too slow. I step into her space and redirect the blade with ease. My hand finds her wrist, twists again, and her own arm drives the knife to her ribs. I press in—just enough pressure to let her feel the blade kiss her skin.
“Dead,” I repeat, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Again?” she challenges, voice tight.
I nod once, stepping back, resetting.
She circles, slower this time, watching my feet and hands. There’s caution now—humility bruised into strategy—but still that same spark of reckless boldness flickering behind her eyes.
She fakes left, spins, and comes at me low, blade angled for my hip—smart but predictable.
I sidestep, twist her momentum against her, and in the next breath she’s on the mat again—my knee pressing into the space just below her sternum, knife trapped between our hands, angled harmlessly to the side.
“Dead,” I say, again. But this time, my voice is quieter. Less final.
And I can’t help but notice something’s shifted.
She’s lying beneath me, chest heaving, skin flushed, her arm pinned by mine. Her eyes lock with mine, breath catching—and not from the fall this time.
Close. Too fucking close.
I push off her like she’s burning.
“You’re not ready,” I mutter, turning away before I look too long.
“You didn’t have to go full Marine on me,” she says, voice flippant but tight around the edges as she pulls herself up.
I don’t answer, because if I open my mouth now, I’m not sure what will come out.
She’s not bad. Sloppy, sure, and wild with her angles. But there’s raw instinct there. Not trained, definitely not reliable—but it’s something.
The knife clatters across the mat and she’s flat on her back again, breath ragged, stubborn pride still blazing in her eyes. I don’t say it this time. Don’t need to. ‘Dead’ is already written in the way her chest rises and falls.
I step back to give her room. Try to reset.
But I can still feel the heat of her skin from where I’d pinned her. Still smell whatever citrus scent clings to her hair. Still see her—the way she moved, the tension in her shoulders, the hesitation right before the lunge.
She’s trying. I’ll give her that. But she has no idea what she’s up against.
“You always fight like that,” she says, brushing sweat from her brow, “or is this just you showing off?”
I turn my head slowly, catching her stare. Hold it just long enough to remind her that I’m not playing.
“I only show off when someone thinks they’re ready for a fight they wouldn’t survive.”
That wipes the smirk from her face.
