WORKOUT
Chris
Istay up most of the night, replaying her words. Part of me thinks I should shut it down before it starts.
Like I’d make her owe me. If anything, I owe her for this mess.
If she wants to learn, I’ll treat it with the weight it deserves. Every session will have purpose. Every action will teach. We only have a couple of weeks before she goes back home. That’s not much, but it’s enough to start. Enough to give her a foundation to build on.
By the time the first light slips through the trees outside, I’ve got it mapped out. It’s not a drill-sergeant plan. I’m not trying to turn her into a soldier. The basics will do. The kind that keeps you alive.
My knock goes unanswered when I wake her. Maybe she backtracked. It takes me pushing the door open and calling her name several times before she stirs.
“Let’s go,” I say. “Dress warm.”
She studies me as if I’m slightly insane but doesn’t complain. Groaning under her breath, she pushes the blanket off.
It’s early and cold, but not brutal. The clouds are thin, allowing the sunlight to come through. The earth is damp underfoot, the path shrouded in mist. We start with a run. One lap around the lake.
I keep pace at her side. The determination is there, even if the conditioning isn’t yet.
Breaths come heavier than she’d like, but I let it slide.
She read that newspaper. Saw what her father called her: lost. I huffed when Cash brought it over to show me.
At first, I wanted to shield her from it, but then I changed my mind.
She deserves to know. I just didn’t foresee it leading to me training her.
Maybe that’s what this is all about. Proving him wrong.
“Slow down if you have to,” I say. “Just don’t stop.”
She doesn’t. Not until the cabin comes back into view and she folds over, hands planted on her knees.
“That was horrible,” she mutters.
“Yeah, well. It’ll get worse.”
“I expected as much.” She wipes sweat from her forehead and straightens her back.
Inside, we move the furniture so we have space for some simple exercises. Jumping jacks, shoulder rolls, a few lunges to stretch the hip flexors. She follows, stiff and awkward, her body fumbling through the motions.
I run her through a quick mobility check, each movement accompanied by a brittle crack.
I explain what I’m searching for. Where she’s tight.
What needs work. Then we move into stance training.
“Feet shoulder-width. Knees flexible. Weight forward. Hands up. Higher. Protect your face.” She follows every instruction, but irritation creeps in anyway.
Her jaw is set; her eyes flash for half a second before she smooths it out.
I step behind her and adjust her arms. “This way,” I say, showing her the angle.
“You want to be ready to move in any direction. Think spring-loaded.” She flinches slightly at my touch.
Although I understand, it still stings more than it should.
I need her to trust me when we train. If she tenses or reacts unexpectedly every time I step in, she’s going to get herself hurt.
We do mental drills next. I toss her a pinecone I collected on the run and bark instructions. Left, right, duck, dodge. It gets sloppy fast, but she doesn’t give up. Every miss sets her mouth in a thin line, frustration written all over her face.
Once we’ve finished the basics, she’s swaying. Sweat clings to her pale skin, and she can barely keep her hands steady.
“All right,” I say. “Let’s eat.”
We head to the kitchen and put together a simple breakfast of oats, eggs, and fruit.
Sara’s hands shake when she holds out the dishes. I pretend not to notice her exhaustion.
“You did good,” I tell her as I take the plates to fill them.
She’s not convinced. But she doesn’t argue either.
“You play any sports?” I ask when we’re sitting at the table.
“Volleyball. Back in school. Didn’t last. I’m not a team player.”
I huff a laugh. “No kidding.”
Her mouth twitches, like she’s deciding whether to take that as an insult or a joke.
After the break, I show her the wall sit. She gets about twenty seconds in before her legs start shaking.
“What does this have to do with self-defense?” she grits out.
“Pain tolerance. Discipline. Mental endurance. If you fold every time things get uncomfortable, you’ll never last in a fight.”
For a second, she falters but refuses to break. I count down slowly. Ten more seconds. Five. Three. Done.
She lets herself slide to the floor.
“Nice work,” I say. "Your body wants to stop before it needs to. You didn’t let it." I sink to her eye level.
“You wanna quit.”
It’s a challenge, not a question.
Her eyes narrow, and a resolute ‘No’ leaves her lips.
“Good.” I rise first and extend both hands toward her. She takes them without hesitation and lets me help her up.
She tries. Really tries. But somewhere between the second round of stance drills and basic footwork, her balance goes. Her legs buckle.
I catch her elbow before she hits the ground. “Sit down,” I say.
“I’m fine—”
“You’re not. You did well. But you’re not there yet. You push past this point, you risk injuries, and then you learn nothing.”
Shame and disappointment are etched into her expression.
I crouch next to her. “Sara,” I start, demanding her attention. “You did more today than many people do in a week. You didn’t quit. You showed up. That’s what matters.”
I help her to her feet. She grips my shoulder for balance, and I guide her with a hand under her arm. No flinching this time.
Now that I’ve seen what she can actually take, I know she never had a shot when I grabbed her.
I hate that.
It’s an itch under my skin, a buzz in my teeth. Not guilt. Guilt is a liability. It’s professional disgust. I want her safe from someone like me. Maybe, a very careful maybe that is, I can help make sure no one else ever gets that chance again.
After dinner, I start another fire. The flames catch quickly, and an orange glow spreads across the room.
The kind of light that slows everything down.
Sara’s already on the far end of the couch when I turn around.
I thought she’d retreat to her room for the night.
She didn’t, and I’m more than okay with that.
I disappear for a minute to grab the towels I have warming in the oven. Muscle soreness is going to hit her hard tomorrow. No way around it. She powered through more than I anticipated today. More than I think she expected from herself.
As I pass her, I toss one of the warm towels over her legs. She blinks, surprised.
“Helps,” I say simply, putting the other over her shoulders.
She nods, eyes on mine.
While the TV drones on, her body relaxes bit by bit. We don’t really watch anything. I think she’s trying to. Or pretending to. But her head tilts, her body slumps, and eventually her breathing slows into that unmistakable rhythm of sleep. She’s out completely.
I let her rest for a while, watching the shadows shift across her face from the flickering firelight. Her legs are curled beneath the towel, her hand half draped over her stomach. She looks serene, trusting the space around her. That thought settles strangely in my chest.
Around midnight, I lean over and say her name. No reaction.
“Sara,” I try again, a little louder.
Nothing. She’s dead to the world.
Air slips through my nose in a muted laugh. I slide my arms under her, lifting her easily with as little jostling as I can. Her head lolls gently against my shoulder. She mumbles incoherently as I carry her toward the stairs but doesn’t wake.
I pass my own bed on the way to her room as an unwelcome notion throws me off. It‘s right there. Big enough for two and more comfortable than the mattress she’s sleeping on.
I could let her take—
No.
I shove that idea straight back where it came from. It crosses a line I’m not willing to step over. Not now. Not ever.
I carry her to her room instead and ease her down.
She barely stirs, rolls onto the pillow, sinking into it.
I pull the blanket over her and straighten up.
For a moment, I stand there, watching her breathe.
Then I step back and grab the door. I don’t lock it.
Hell, I don’t even close it all the way and get to bed myself.
Tomorrow’s going to hurt.