“That’s how you get stabbed in the parking lot.” He moves behind me. Adjusts my shoulders.
His chest brushes my back and I forget how to breathe.
Oh.
So this is how people accidentally get pregnant during self-defense lessons.
“Fighting is control,” he says near my ear. “Knowing where your body is. Knowing where theirs is.”
It’s the sexiest thing anyone has ever said to me while I’m sweating through an old camp T-shirt and fantasizing about reverse cowgirl with bonus grappling.
My body knows exactly where his is, actually.
I throw a punch at the air. It’s probably still terrible, but he nods.
“Better,” he says. “Again.”
Sir. Please stop saying things like that. I’m one command away from kneeling out of pure confusion.
My brain is filing it under ‘Things Enzo Could Say While I’m Face-Down That Would Make Me Come Immediately.’
It’s a long list. We’re considering a second filing cabinet.
I punch air for twenty minutes while Enzo watches and corrects and occasionally puts his hands on me to adjust something. By the end I’m sweaty, laughing, and fully aware that my arms are noodles and my thoughts are not safe for work.
“You’re not hopeless,” he says, which from Enzo is basically a parade. Balloons. Confetti. A plaque on the wall.
“High praise.”
“I don’t give praise. I give accurate assessments.”
“And your accurate assessment is that I’m not hopeless?”
“My accurate assessment is that if someone grabs you, you might be able to hit them hard enough to run away.” He almost smiles. “That’s not nothing.”
My chest does a weird little flip like it just got praised by someone whose approval I very much want in deeply inappropriate ways.
I throw a playful punch at his shoulder. He catches my fist. Holds it.
We stand there too long.
My pulse is in my throat. My hand is still trapped in his. My brain is chanting, “say something normal say something normal” and failing spectacularly.
“Just so you know,” I blurt, “this turns me on, it’s entirely your fault.”
His mouth twitches. “Yeah,” he says calmly. “I figured.”
My soul leaves my body for a second.
The moment tilts. The momentwantsthings.
Then he lets go. Steps back. And the air in the room becomes breathable again.
I teach him to bake.
This goes about as well as teaching a bear to knit.
“You’re supposed to cream the butter and sugar,” I say, watching him attack the mixing bowl like it wronged the family. “Not assassinate them, Enzo. We’re making cookies, not making an example.”
