Chapter 2 #2
For a moment, I couldn't speak, my carefully rehearsed opening line evaporating under a wave of unexpected shyness.
"Hello?" he prompted, his tone patient but expectant. In that one word, I could hear that he wasn't the type to repeat himself often.
I swallowed hard, forcing my voice past the sudden tightness in my throat. "Hello, Sir, it's . . . it's Daliah Matthews," I finally managed, wincing at how girlish I sounded. Why the fuck had I called him ‘Sir’? I cleared my throat and added, "From the park."
There was a brief pause—probably only a second or two, but it stretched in my mind, expanding to fill the room with doubt. My stomach clenched painfully. He'd forgotten. Or worse, he remembered but regretted giving me his number.
"Daliah."
Just my name, but the way he said it—there was a subtle, unmistakable warmth that entered his voice, a gentle note of approval that swept away my anxiety like a hand brushing aside cobwebs. The knot in my stomach loosened.
"I was hoping you'd call," he continued, and I found myself smiling at nothing, at the empty room, at the simple honesty in those five words. "How are you doing?"
The question wasn't perfunctory. He wanted to know. I could hear it in his tone—that same attentiveness I'd felt when he'd examined me for injuries in the park, his eyes clinically assessing yet somehow gentle.
"I'm okay," I began, then stopped. The lie felt wrong, especially to him. "Actually, not great. I haven't been sleeping much. And yesterday, walking home, some guys . . ." I trailed off, not wanting to sound pathetic. "Nothing happened. They just said some things. But it hit me hard."
"I understand," he said, and somehow I believed he did. His voice remained calm, a steady anchor in the choppy sea of my nerves. "That's normal after what you experienced. Your body's still in protection mode."
Protection mode. Yes, that described it perfectly—the hypervigilance, the startling at small noises, the constant scanning for threats. He understood without me having to explain.
"I've been thinking about what you said," I continued, gaining confidence from his receptiveness. "About jujitsu. About . . . practicing being brave." I paused, then admitted, "I don't know if I'd be any good at it."
"That's not what matters at the beginning," Chad said, his tone gentle but firm, like he was explaining something obvious. "What matters is showing up. Learning the fundamentals. The rest comes with time and practice."
The simple logic of it, delivered with such quiet conviction, made something ease inside me. No pressure to be perfect right away. Just show up. I could do that.
"I'd like to try," I said, surprised by the steadiness in my voice. "If you think it would help."
"I do," he said without hesitation. Then, after a brief pause: "Why don't you come by the academy this afternoon? Around two? It's quiet then. We can talk properly."
A sense of rightness settled over me, like pieces clicking into place.
"Two o'clock," I repeated. "I'll be there."
"Good."
"Do I need to bring anything?" I asked, suddenly conscious of my lack of proper athletic wear.
"Just yourself," Chad said. "And comfortable clothes you can move in. Nothing special for the first session."
Session. We were going to have a session. The word felt intimate somehow, conjuring images of his eyes focused solely on me, his hands perhaps guiding my movements . . .
I pushed the thought away, my cheeks warming. "Okay. I'll see you at two."
"I'll be waiting," he replied, and the simple statement carried a weight, a promise that settled deep in my bones. Then, softly, he added, "I'm glad you called, Daliah."
***
A t precisely 1:55 PM, I stood outside Wake's Jujitsu Academy, my hands shoved deep into my pockets to hide their trembling. The building surprised me—no flashy signage or pictures of muscled men in fighting poses, just a simple black awning with the academy's name in clean white lettering.
I'd changed clothes three times before settling on black leggings and a loose navy t-shirt—the same outfit I'd worn to the park that night, though I tried not to think about the coincidence.
My hair was pulled back in a neat ponytail, and I'd foregone makeup entirely.
Practical. Unremarkable. Invisible, I hoped.
A young couple exited the academy, both dressed in white uniforms with colored belts. They were laughing about something, their faces flushed with exertion, bodies moving with the easy confidence of people comfortable in their own skin.
My watch read 1:57. Three minutes until our appointment. I could still leave. Chad would be disappointed, but he'd get over it. He probably had dozens of potential students approach him every week. One no-show wouldn't matter.
I imagined his expression, though—that slight furrow between his brows when something displeased him—and found I couldn't bear the thought of causing it. Not after he'd been so patient on the phone. Not after he'd saved me in the park.
Before my courage could evaporate, I pushed open the door and stepped inside. A small bell chimed softly, announcing my arrival.
Inside, the reception area was surprisingly calm and modern—polished concrete floors, a minimalist wooden desk, and a seating area with clean-lined furniture.
The walls were white, adorned with just a few framed black-and-white photographs of what looked like historic martial arts masters.
Everything was immaculately clean, without a speck of dust or a magazine out of place.
The air smelled faintly of clean sweat and disinfectant, underlaid with something woody—perhaps incense or essential oils. It wasn't unpleasant, just unfamiliar, a reminder that I'd stepped into a different world.
No one sat at the reception desk. From deeper within the building came the sound of rhythmic thuds and an occasional sharp command—a man's voice, though not Chad's, calling out counts or corrections.
The sounds made me feel small and a little out of my depth, my stomach tightening with the familiar sensation of being somewhere I didn't belong.
A glass display case near the desk caught my eye.
Instead of trophies, it contained a small but impressive collection of military memorabilia—medals, patches, a folded flag, and what looked like unit insignia.
Chad's military past, carefully preserved but not ostentatiously displayed.
I leaned closer, trying to make sense of the emblems and ribbons, each item meticulously arranged and labeled with small typewritten cards.
Just as I was contemplating whether I should sit or maybe text Chad to let him know I'd arrived, a door opened at the far end of the reception area. I straightened instinctively, my heart performing an uneven stutter-step in my chest.
Chad emerged, and the air in the room seemed to shift, rearranging itself around his presence.
He wore a plain black, perfectly fitted t-shirt that highlighted the breadth of his shoulders and dark gray athletic pants that hung just right on his powerful frame.
His feet were bare, showing strong arches and a small scar across one instep.
His hair was military-short, not quite a buzz cut but close, emphasizing the clean lines of his skull and the strong angle of his jaw.
He looked even more formidable here, in his own domain, his body moving with a fluid economy that spoke of absolute confidence in his physical capabilities. He wasn't a tall man—probably only five-ten or so—but his presence filled the space in a way that height alone couldn't account for.
My mouth went dry. In the days since the park, I'd begun to wonder if I'd exaggerated his impact in my mind, built him up as something more than he was because of the circumstances of our meeting. But no—if anything, my memory had understated his effect.
A small, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips—just a slight softening at one corner of his mouth—but the subtle change transformed his face, warming the steel in his gray eyes.
That look of gentle approval sent a surprising warmth cascading through me, from the top of my head all the way to my toes, which curled involuntarily inside my sneakers.
"Miss Matthews," he said, my name a low rumble in his chest. "Glad you made it."
He moved toward me with that same contained power I remembered from the park, his slight limp barely noticeable in the fluid precision of his gait.
He stopped a respectful distance away—not so close as to be intimidating, but close enough that I had to tilt my chin up slightly to meet his eyes.
The faint scent of sandalwood reached me, the same scent that had lingered on his jacket.
"I'm not late, am I?" I asked, suddenly worried that I'd misunderstood our arrangement, that I was inconveniencing him.
Chad shook his head once, a decisive movement. "You're right on time." He glanced at the delicate watch on his wrist. "Two o'clock exactly." The tiny smile returned, suggesting that my punctuality pleased him.
That small hint of approval shouldn't have mattered so much. I was twenty-seven, looking for self-defense training, not seven, looking for a gold star. Yet I felt a ridiculous flutter of pride at having met his expectations.
I became acutely aware of how I must look to him—a slightly overweight, unremarkable woman in workout clothes that had never seen a workout. My hand rose self-consciously to my ponytail, checking that it was still neat.
"I wasn't sure what to wear," I admitted, gesturing vaguely at my outfit.
Chad's eyes performed a quick, professional assessment, sweeping from my ponytail to my sneakers in a glance that felt thorough but not invasive. "What you have on is perfect," he said. "Practical. Nothing loose that can be grabbed."
The simple practicality of his assessment eased some tension I hadn't realized I was carrying. He wasn't judging my body; he was evaluating my clothing for functionality.