Rain pressed softly against the windows of the small school on University Way, turning the Seattle night silver beyond the glass. The wooden floors of the Jun Fan Gung Fu Institute still smelled faintly of sweat and liniment from the evening classes, though now the room had fallen quiet save for the dull hum of the overhead lights and the quick rhythm of feet sliding across the floor.
Bruce Lee circled her with his hands loosely raised, black training shoes whispering against the boards.
“No, no, no,” he groaned dramatically, grinning despite himself. “You’re thinking again. I can actually hear it from here.” He tapped his temple. “Too loud.”
Her reply came between breaths, defensive enough to amuse him.
Bruce laughed softly through his nose. “See? There it is. Pride. Good. Pride is useful. But hesitation?” He darted forward suddenly, two fingers stopping an inch from her forehead. “Dead.”
Even at twenty-two he moved unnaturally fast, all loose shoulders and coiled balance. He paced backward again, running a hand through damp dark hair before motioning for her to continue.
The others had gone home nearly an hour ago.
That had become a pattern.
Bruce told himself it was because she learned quickly. Because she listened. Because unlike half his students, she did not treat kung fu like theater or some exotic party trick. He told himself it was because she reminded him of the way he had once stayed late under Ip Man’s instruction back in Hong Kong, hungry to absorb every detail before it vanished.
It had absolutely nothing to do with the way his concentration occasionally dissolved whenever she smiled at him.
“Again,” he ordered.
She attacked faster this time.
Bruce blocked twice, caught her wrist, then stopped abruptly with visible surprise. “Ahhh,” he said, eyes brightening. “There. That was good.”
The praise clearly pleased her.
Unfortunately, that pleased him.
Which was becoming a problem.
He released her wrist a second too slowly and immediately cleared his throat, turning away with exaggerated seriousness. “Still sloppy,” he said quickly. “Very sloppy. Terrible, actually.”
An amused sound came from her side of the room.
Bruce pointed accusingly. “Don’t laugh. I’m a very respected instructor.”
Another doubtful response.
“I am!” He pressed a hand to his chest. “I have a school now. Officially.” His grin widened. “This is professionalism.”
Bruce grabbed a towel from a nearby chair and wiped sweat from his neck before tossing another toward her. “You know,” he said casually, “the others are starting to complain.”
That got her attention.
“They think I train you longer because you’re my best student.” He shrugged, pretending nonchalance. “Very annoying rumors.”
Her expression shifted with obvious skepticism.
“Well,” Bruce admitted, unable to fully suppress a smile, “you are my best student.”
She folded her arms, unconvinced that explained everything.
Bruce leaned back against the wall mirrors, studying her for a moment too long before speaking again, quieter now.
“When I was your age in Hong Kong, I stayed after class too.” His voice lost some of its teasing edge. “Ip Man taught me privately sometimes. Not because I was special.” A beat. “I mean—I was special, obviously, but not only because of that.”
That earned another laugh from her.
Bruce pointed at her again. “You see? This is disrespectful behavior toward your teacher.”
She bowed with exaggerated apology.
“Oh, now you’re mocking me.”
He shook his head, smiling helplessly despite himself. Then his gaze lingered again—on her face, her stance, the loose exhaustion in her posture after training. Something softer entered his expression before he quickly covered it with humor.
“You know what your real problem is?” he asked.
Her brows lifted slightly.
“You distract me.”
The words escaped before he could stop them.
For once, Bruce Lee had no fast recovery.
He looked away first, rubbing the back of his neck with sudden embarrassment, laughing quietly under his breath. “Ah,” he muttered. “Terrible. Very unprofessional. Forget I said that.”