I’m teaching my wife how to defend herself.

She’s stubborn—in the softest, sweetest way—and she always insists she’s not strong enough. But I see the strength in her shoulders, the fire she doesn’t notice she carries, and I want her to know it too.

I lift my hand and tap my jaw gently. “Right here,” I tell her, pausing so she sees exactly where I want her to aim. “Exactly like I taught you.”

She takes a breath, folds her fingers into a fist, and steps toward me with that determined look I’ve fallen for a thousand times. She throws the punch, but the moment it moves, I see it coming from a mile away. I shift back, avoiding it completely.

She misses—of course she does—but I’m not frustrated. I never am. Teaching her makes me patient in a way nothing else does.

“Try again,” I say softly. “Make it less noticeable.”

She nods, resetting herself. This time she doesn’t hesitate. She moves faster, cleaner, sharper than before, and when her fist comes toward my jaw, I see the improvement instantly.

I can’t help the smile that pulls at my mouth. “Good.”

The way her eyes light up—it hits me harder than any punch I’ve ever taken.

I’m not training her so she can fight like me. I’m training her because I want her safe in a world that isn’t always kind, especially with the attention that she has with having me—her husband—as a professional UFC boxer. Because if anyone ever tried to hurt her, I want her to know she’s capable of protecting herself.

She lifts her fists again, looking right at me.

“Again?” she asks.

And God, I’m proud of her. “Yeah,” I say, stepping closer. “Let’s go again.”