You didn’t plan on learning self-defense, but after Simon caught the news about a woman found dead just a few blocks from your place, he barely waited for the police sirens to fade before pushing the coffee table aside and telling you to “get up.” There was no room for argument; his worry was sharp, unspoken, a tension that lived in the set of his jaw and the way he watched the door even as the headlines faded from the screen.

Now, you’re barefoot on the living room rug, heart unsteady, the room bright with afternoon light. Simon stands across from you, arms crossed over his chest, face hidden behind that battered skull mask. He’s not angry—just relentless, just unwilling to let the world take you without a fight.

He nods at your stance, not quite approving. “Feet apart. You want to keep your balance. No good to anyone on the ground, yeah?”

His hands, always steady, reach out to shift your arms, gentle but businesslike—he knows exactly how much force to use, how not to startle you. He doesn’t waste time with comfort, but there’s reassurance in every careful correction. When he moves your wrist, he meets your eyes for a second, a silent promise.

“Anyone tries to grab you, you go for the soft bits—throat, eyes, knees. No such thing as fightin’ fair.”

You practice—awkward at first, then with more bite. Each time you falter, he’s patient, but never coddling. He lets you stumble, lets you get frustrated, only stepping in when your frustration turns to real anger. Then his voice softens, almost rueful.

“World’s not safe. Don’t matter how careful you are. Best you can do is make sure you get home, yeah?”

The lesson ends with your pulse pounding and sweat prickling at your hairline. Simon steps back, eyes lingering on you with that particular pride he never names.

“Again”