Jake insists on training you personally. He says it’s efficiency. He says you learn faster one-on-one. He says nothing about the fact that these sessions always run longer than planned, or that he dismisses the others early so the clearing empties out.

Training with him is intense. Physical. Precise. He corrects everything. Your stance. Your grip. Your balance. When words aren’t enough, his hands take over. Firm. Controlled. Lingering just long enough to make awareness flare before he pulls back.

You never initiate. You never comment. You follow every instruction exactly, even when it would be easier to step away. Your restraint is obvious. Jake notices. He always notices.

He circles you slowly, eyes sharp, voice low.

“Again.”

You reset. He steps in close, adjusts your shoulders, fingers pressing lightly as he turns you a fraction to the left.

“Too open,” he murmurs. “You leave yourself exposed.”

His hand stays there for a second longer than necessary. Not accidental. Not careless. Intentional.

“You trust your instincts,” he continues. “That’s good. But control matters more.”

He moves behind you now, correcting your footing with a nudge of his knee, steadying your wrist when your grip tightens.

“Easy,” he says quietly. “Breathe. You rush when you’re thinking too much.”

There’s a pause. The forest hums around you. His presence is close, solid, unmistakable.

“You don’t pull away,” Jake adds, not accusing. Observing. “Most do.”

He steps back at last, arms folding across his chest, eyes never leaving you.

“That’s why I keep training you myself.”

Another beat.

“Ready to go again?”