24 JULIAN
Steam curls around me as I step out of the shower, grabbing a towel to dry off. Water drips down my back as I wipe the fog from the mirror.
My phone buzzes on the counter. Corey and Tobias are working the fight tonight. I’m at home on Rhea babysitting duty, much to her dismay.
“All systems go.” "Everything set there?" I text back.
"Yeah. Keep an eye on her."
I pull on a fresh pair of sweats and a t-shirt. The familiar sounds of Rhea's music drift down from upstairs - some indie rock band I don't recognize. At least she seems settled in.
I run a hand through my damp hair, considering our situation. A few days of relative peace doesn't mean shit when someone's clearly targeting her. And tonight's fights always bring out the shadiest characters.
My phone buzzes again. "Let us know if you need anything,"
Corey texts. "Tobias and I will handle the rest."
"Copy that, boss." I slip the phone in my pocket and head upstairs. Time to play babysitter to the girl who's got us all twisted up in knots.
I knock on her door, shifting my weight from foot to foot. The sweet craving hit hard and fast - might as well see if she wants to join. When the door swings open, my mouth goes dry. Tiny sleep shorts show off miles of legs, a tattooed thigh, and her tank top leaves little to the imagination.
"Hey," she says, marking her place in a weathered paperback.
"What's up?"
I clear my throat. "Got hit with a cookie craving. Want to help me bake some?"
A laugh bubbles up from her chest. "You bake too?"
"Don't sound so surprised. These hands are good for more than just mixing drinks and throwing punches."
"Alright, prove it." She sets her book down. "Lead the way, cookie master."
I try not to stare as she follows me down the hallway, bare feet padding against the hardwood. The kitchen's my sanctuary in this house - the one place that's truly mine since neither Corey nor Tobias can cook worth a damn.
"So what kind are we making?" She hops up onto the counter, legs swinging.
"Chocolate chip. The classics never disappoint." I start pulling ingredients from the cabinets. "Plus, I've perfected the recipe over the years."
"Secret family recipe?"
"Nah, just lots of trial and error. And maybe a few drunk baking sessions."
She snorts. "Now that I'd pay to see - the badass bartender in an apron, covered in flour."
"Keep dreaming, sweetheart. I'm a very neat baker." I grab two mixing bowls. "Now, are you gonna help or just sit there looking pretty?"
"Depends. What's in it for me?"
"First dibs on warm cookies? Plus my sparkling personality, of course."
"Sold." She slides off the counter. "Put me to work."
Ten minutes later and wearing more flour than I had originally anticipated, she looks over at me with flour smeared across her nose.
"So what did little Julian want to be when he grew up?" She asks, measuring chocolate chips with careful precision. "Let me guess - professional chef?"
I laugh, cracking eggs into the bowl. "Not quite. Wanted to be a superhero, actually. Had this whole Batman thing going on - minus the leather outfit and billions of dollars."
"Your parents still around?"
My hands still for a moment before I resume mixing. "Dad split when I was eight. Mom..." I shrug, aiming for casual. "She did her best. Worked three jobs, barely kept food on the table. Started fighting in local matches at sixteen to help out."
"That's rough." Her voice is soft, lacking the usual pity these conversations bring. "Is she still...?"
"ALS. Four years ago." I focus on creaming the butter and sugar, avoiding her eyes. "Fought like hell though. Guess that's where I got it from."
"Sounds like she was pretty amazing."
"Yeah, she was." The memory of her smile tugs at my chest.
"Used to patch me up after fights, tell me I was being stupid, then kiss my forehead and say she was proud of me anyway."
Rhea bumps her hip against mine. "Still doing stupid things, I see."
"Hey now, these cookies are going to be masterpieces."
"Not what I meant and you know it." She hands me the vanilla.
"But I get it. Sometimes the stupid things are worth it."
"Speaking from experience?"
"Maybe." She grins. "But we're talking about you right now. Did your mom ever see you fight professionally?"
"Front row at every match she could make it to. Even the ones where I got my ass handed to me."
"Those happen often?"
I flex dramatically. "Please. Have you seen these guns?"
She rolls her eyes, but I catch her quick glance at my arms.
"Modest too."
I slide the cookie sheets into the oven. Rhea leans against the counter, twisting a strand of dark hair around her finger. "I've been thinking - with everything that's happened, maybe you could show me some moves? Self-defense stuff?"
I raise an eyebrow. "You want to learn to fight?"
"Not like you guys do downstairs. Just... enough to handle myself if I need to."
"No time like the present." I tap the timer. " 17 minutes towards your first lesson?"
She laughs, pushing off the counter. "You're serious?"
"Dead serious. Come on." I lead her through the mudroom to the side door. "The garage has better space anyway."
"Wait, is that why no one ever parks in there? I thought you guys were just weird about your cars."
I punch in the keycode and swing open the heavy door.
"Welcome to my actual office."
Rhea steps inside, mouth dropping open as she takes in the transformed space. Training mats cover the floor, a heavy bag hangs in one corner, and various pieces of equipment line the walls. The whole place smells like leather and sweat.
"Holy shit." She walks the perimeter, running her fingers along the speed bag. "This isn't a garage at all."
"Nope. Personal training space. Comes in handy when I need to work with fighters or..." I shrug, moving to the center mat. "When pretty girls ask for self-defense lessons."
"Smooth." She kicks off her shoes, padding onto the mat. "So where do we start, sensei?"
"First rule - never call me sensei again." I can't help grinning as I demonstrate a basic stance. "Now, show me how you'd throw a punch."
She winds up and slaps the heavy bag with a weak thud. “Ow!” She shakes out her wrist, grimacing. “That hurt more than I expected.”
“You’re not putting your body into it,” I say, stepping closer.
“It’s not just your arm—shift your weight, use your hips, and follow through.”
I demonstrate, slamming my fist into the bag with a satisfying thwack.
“Like that. You’re not swatting a fly. Imagine it’s someone you really hate.”
She narrows her eyes, muttering, “Carla before she got her shit rocked and I feel bad for her,” under her breath before throwing another punch.
It’s better this time, her body twisting into the motion, but I can’t help noticing the way her tank top rides up, revealing a sliver of skin and the way her chest moves with the force.
This might have been a really bad idea.
“Better,” I say, my voice a little tighter than I’d like.
“Now, let’s work on taking someone down. If you’re in a bad spot, you need to know how to get out of it.”
I motion for her to come closer. “I’m going to grab you from behind. Your goal is to break free.”
She nods, her face serious as I step behind her.
My hands settle on her shoulders, and I lean in, my breath brushing her ear.
“You’re pinned. What do you do?” She twists, trying to slip out, but I tighten my grip.
“Not bad, but you’re not using your weight. Get low, shift your hips, and use leverage.”
She tries again, her body pressing against mine as she struggles.
The heat between us is impossible to ignore, and I can feel her heart racing—or maybe that’s mine.
“You’re still being too polite,” I say, my voice rough. “Get mad.
Imagine I’m the guy who ran you off the road.
You’re not just trying to escape—you’re trying to hurt me.”
Her breath hitches, and for a split second, she stills.
Then she moves, her body surging with purpose.
She twists hard, her elbow jabbing back toward my ribs as she drops her weight.
I let her momentum carry us, and we both hit the mat in a tangle of limbs.
She straddles me, breathing hard, her wild hair framing her face.
My hands instinctively grip her thighs, and for a moment, we just stare at each other. The air between us crackles with something raw and unfiltered.
“That’s how you do it,” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper. She doesn’t move, her chest rising and falling as she looks down at me. Her hands are braced on my shoulders, and I feel the heat of her skin even through my shirt.
“I think I’m getting the hang of it,” she says, her voice trembling but teasing. Her hips shift slightly, and my grip tightens on her thighs. This wasn’t part of the lesson, but I’m not about to stop her.
“You’re a quick learner,” I say, my voice low. Neither of us moves, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife.
Then the oven timer goes off in the house, and the spell breaks.
She scrambles off me, her face flushed as she avoids my eyes.
“Cookies,” she says, like it’s the most important word in the world.
“Cookies,” I echo, running a hand through my hair as I sit up.
I bolt to my feet, blood rushing in my ears. I force myself to move, sprinting through the side door and into the kitchen. The smell of slightly overdone chocolate chip fills the air as I yank open the oven door. I hit the timer with more force than necessary, silencing its demanding shriek.
Fuck it.
I leave the cookies in the oven and race back to the garage. Rhea's standing now, fidgeting with the hem of her tank top. Her green eyes lock with mine, and something electric passes between us.
"Fuck the cookies," I growl, crossing the space between us in three quick strides. My hands cup her face as I crash my lips against hers.