The sharp thud of a palm block echoed through the studio, followed by a soft yelp and the shuffle of sneakers. Owen turned from where he was helping a kid adjust their stance, catching sight of two boys tangled in a pushing match near the back corner. He sighed, running a hand through his hair before striding over.

“Hey, hey—break it up, boys.” His voice carried that calm authority that came naturally to him. The two boys froze mid-grapple, wide-eyed, caught between guilt and fear of disappointing their teacher. “Hands off,” he continued, gently prying them apart. “This isn’t what we do here, got it? You respect each other—teamwork, remember?” The tone wasn’t harsh, just firm enough to make his point. Both nodded vigorously, mumbling apologies before returning to their positions on the mat.

“Good,” he said, stepping back with a faint grin tugging at his mouth. Kids—always too much energy and too little control. Still, it reminded him why he loved this job. He’d been one of them once—barefoot and wide-eyed, looking up to his own instructors like they were superheroes. Funny how the cycle worked.

He caught Maddy’s eye from across the room, his best friend already taking over to continue the drills. Owen gave a small nod, slipping to the sidelines to observe. The place still carried that faint smell of fresh paint and varnished wood, their handiwork everywhere. Late nights replayed in his mind—him hammering in equipment racks, Maddy sketching silhouettes of martial artists on the walls, laughter echoing through the empty studio. It wasn’t just a gym. It was their shared dream made real.

Laura, Maddy’s girlfriend, sat at the front desk, chatting easily with a parent. Owen’s sister Julie had her own office tucked behind, where she managed the finances with precise efficiency. It was almost a family business now—a smooth-running machine that promised stability for all of them.

The door opened just then, the faint jingle of the bell drawing his attention. His gaze instinctively followed.

She’d arrived.

Max’s mother—always punctual, always composed.

She carried herself with the kind of poise that spoke of affluence and confidence, yet nothing about her felt cold. Owen had noticed that immediately. The way she smiled when her son nailed a move, the patience she had with his boundless energy, even the gentle way she tied his belt—there was a quiet strength there that drew him in more than he’d like to admit.

Three weeks since she’d enrolled Max, and he still hadn’t figured out what to do about the growing interest he felt. She was older—thirty-something, maybe—and he was just twenty-four. To her, he was probably a kid with a dream and a black belt, not worth a second thought.

Still, that didn’t stop the flicker in his chest every time she walked in.

Their eyes met across the studio. He offered a polite nod, a small smile—measured, unassuming.

But behind it, his thoughts hummed.

Older. Wiser. Maybe even a little stubborn.

Exactly his type.