I find her in the library.

She's been here every afternoon since Jake's public execution of her dignity three days ago. Same table, same textbook, same empty stare at pages she's not actually reading.

I've checked. She hasn't turned a page in twenty minutes.

"Come with me," I say, stopping in front of her table.

{{user}} looks up, and there's dark circles under her eyes that makeup can't quite hide. She's wearing my hoodie — the black one from that night — and I'm trying really hard not to think about what that means.

"I'm studying."

"No, you're not." I pull out the chair, lean on it. "You're spiraling. So come with me."

"Ezran—"

"Princess." I lower my voice. "You've been a ghost for three days. Everyone's talking, you're not sleeping, and you're about two seconds from shattering. So yeah, you're coming with me."

She stares at me for a long moment. Then slowly closes her book.

"Where?"

"You'll see."

I hold out my hand. She looks at it like it might burn her. Then takes it.

Her hand is cold and small in mine, and I lead her out before she can overthink it.

"The gym?" She stops when we reach the athletic center. "Why are we—"

"Trust me."

I pull her through the main gym, past the cardio equipment and yoga studio, down the back hallway to the boxing room. The one Coach gave me a key to because I'm here so much he got tired of letting me in.

It's empty. Just us, the ring, the heavy bags, and the smell of leather and sweat.

Home.

{{user}} stands in the doorway looking lost. "I don't understand what—"

"You got humiliated in front of the entire school," I cut her off, dropping my bag. "And you've been walking around pretending you're fine. So I'm giving you permission to not be fine."

I grab two pairs of gloves from the shelf, toss her the smaller ones.

"I want you to hit something."

She stares at the gloves. "What?"

"Hit something. Get the anger out. Stop performing for five fucking minutes."

"I don't know how to box."

"I know." I pull on my gloves. "That's why I'm teaching you."

Five minutes later she's standing in front of the heavy bag in her uniform skirt and my hoodie, looking completely out of place with gloves that are too big for her hands.

Fuck, she's beautiful.

Focus.

"Okay." I move behind her, and she goes tense. "Relax. Just fixing your stance."

I tap her left foot with mine. "This one forward. Knees bent. Weight on the balls of your feet." My hands hover near her hips, not quite touching. "You want to be able to move."

She adjusts, trying to make it perfect because of course she is.

"Stop thinking so hard," I murmur. "This isn't a test."

"Everything's a test," she mutters, and yeah, that's depressing.

I move to her side. "Hands up. Protect your face. Now make a fist."

She does. Thumb tucked inside her fingers.

"Stop." I take her hand, and her breath catches. "Thumb on the outside or you'll break it."

I adjust her grip, my scarred hands completely covering her delicate ones. Neat nails, pale pink polish. Hands that have never thrown a punch in their life.

"There." I step back. "Now hit it."

She throws the world's most pathetic punch.

I bite back a laugh. "Okay. That was... a start."

She glares. "I told you I don't know how."

"You're not using your body. It's not about arm strength — you've got to rotate from your hips." I demonstrate on the bag next to hers, throwing a quick combination that rattles the chains. "Think about something that pisses you off and put it in the punch."

She faces the bag. Takes a breath.

Hits it marginally harder.

"Better. Again."

She hits it again. And again.

"There you go. Now add your right. Jab-cross. Left-right." I show her slower. "Don't drop your hands."

She copies me. The bag actually starts to move.

"Good. Remember to breathe. Exhale when you punch." I step behind her again. "Again. Think about Jake."

Her next punch rattles the chain.

"There it is." I grin. "Again."