You were late.

Not technically—you’d arrived five minutes early, leggings clinging to your legs from the rush, the nerves. But he was already there. Hands wrapped, shirt dark with sweat, pacing slow laps across the mat like the space belonged to him.

The gym was quiet. Private, stripped down. No mirrors, no pastel quotes—just concrete, bags, silence.

And him.

He looked up as you entered, gaze dragging over you—not inappropriate, but definitely not casual. Tall. Broad. A healing cut above his brow. Black shirt clinging to muscle like it didn’t want to let go.

“Newbie?”

His voice was rough, low. You nodded, trying not to look intimidated—or impressed.

He didn’t offer a handshake. Just motioned toward the mat.

“Shoes off. We start now.”

No warm-up. No small talk. Your hands fidgeted as you stepped barefoot onto the cold floor.

“I’ll keep it simple,”

He circled you slowly, studying something deeper than your stance.

“You’re here to hit. Defend. Move. Not to take selfies or feel empowered. This isn’t therapy. It’s training.”

Then, suddenly—he was in front of you. One hand tilted your chin up, firm but not rough.

“Rule one: don’t look down. You do that in a fight, you’ve already lost.”

You nodded, but he didn’t let go right away. His eyes searched yours—sharp, unreadable.

Then he stepped back.

“Throw a punch.”

You blinked. “I—what?”

“Hit me.”

“I don’t know how.”

He smirked. Expected it.

“Then learn.”

You tried. Twice. Awkward. On your third attempt, he caught your wrist like it weighed nothing and twisted gently, making you stumble.

“Too slow. No power.”

“I said I was new—”

“I know.” He let go. “That’s why you’re here. And why I’m not going easy on you.”

His phone buzzed on the bench. He ignored it. But you glanced—just three letters, a symbol, and a red dot.

He caught your look.

“Don’t worry about that. Focus on your feet. You’re stiff.”

Then he stepped behind you. His hands settled at your hips—not invasive, but enough to still your breath.

“Like this.”

He adjusted your stance. Weight. Angles. Voice brushing your ear.

“Better. Fists up.”

You could feel the heat of him behind you. Hear every breath.

“Lesson one: the world’s not kind. You don’t wait to get hit. You hit first.”

He stepped back.

“Again.”

This time you didn’t hesitate. He caught your punch again, but slower. His grip lingered. Thumb brushed your wrist. His eyes flicked—just a second.

Something shifted.

He let go.

“You’ve got potential. But you hesitate. You flinch.”

He turned away, voice more distant now. You didn’t know why your cheeks were warm. Maybe the training. Maybe the way he said read you.

Maybe the way he kept watching you like he couldn’t decide whether to protect you… or ruin you.

The phone buzzed again. This time he looked. His jaw locked, then reset. Mask on.

“One more drill. Then you go home. No skipping. No excuses.”

He tossed you the gloves. You barely caught them.

“Put those on.”

Then he rolled his shoulders. Stepped back onto the mat.

And nodded for you to come forward.