Chapter Five
Teaching Me To Fight Back
Olivia
I don’t dream about the fire.
I dream about hands. Large, warm, steady hands closing around my wrists, not to pin me, not to hurt me, but to guide, to anchor.
A deep voice saying my name like it’s something sacred instead of something shouted in anger.
Heat everywhere, not from flames but from skin and want and the dangerous promise of more.
When I wake, my face is hot and my thighs are pressed together, and I immediately want to die of embarrassment.
Fantastic. I’ve officially become the older-woman cliché drooling over the younger firefighter in the next room. Somewhere, the universe is laughing its ass off.
The ceiling fan spins lazily above me, cutting thin slices of morning light drifting in through the curtains. The spare room is simple—soft yellow paint, mismatched furniture, and a pile of folded blankets on a chair—but it feels like a hug in house form.
It feels safe.
I stretch and hiss when my chest pulls tight. Right. Smoke inhalation. Trauma. Not the sex dream hangover I’d prefer. My throat still feels raw, but the oxygen tube is gone and I’m breathing on my own just fine.
A knock sounds on my door, and I jolt upright like a startled cat.
“Olivia?” Darren’s voice drifts through wood and sleepy brain fog, deep and rough like he hasn’t quite woken up yet. “Are you decent?”
No. Not emotionally and barely physically. “Yes,” I croak, then clear my throat. “Yeah. Come in.”
The door opens and he leans against the frame like sin incarnate. Barefoot. Grey sweatpants. A white t-shirt clinging to his chest like it owes me money.
His hair is still damp from a shower, curling slightly at the ends. A faint scar crosses his bicep and another hugs his jaw. He moves like someone who knows exactly how strong he is and exactly how gentle he can be.
My ovaries hold hands and jump off a cliff. Fucking traitors.
“Morning,” he says softly.
“Morning,” I repeat, which is impressive considering my brain has left the building and my body is a traitor.
He looks me over without leering, his gaze lingering just long enough to make my skin warm. “How’s the breathing?”
“Less cactus,” I say, “more sandpaper.”
“That’s progress.” He smiles. “Want some coffee?”
“Yes,” I sigh, almost indecently. “God, yes. If it’s an option, I will marry coffee.”
His grin tilts wicked. “I’m going fight it for your affection.”
“I’m thirty-five,” I remind him weakly. “I require caffeine to survive.”
“Then I’ll bring you both,” he says, and disappears, leaving me staring at the door like it just personally offended me.
Get it together, Olivia. I swing my legs over the bed, wincing at minor aches in muscles I didn’t know I had. My reflection in the mirror across the room makes me pause.
Puffy eyes. Wild hair. Full body swathed in borrowed sleep shirt that strains a little over my breasts and doesn’t bother pretending to hide my hips.
This is me. This soft, scarred, curved body that men have used as a target for their cruelty and that I’ve apologized for existing in my entire adult life.
Darren saw me in a hospital gown and with snot and soot and fear smeared across my face and still looked at me like I was something worth carrying out of hell.
Don’t fucking cry, I tell myself. Not before coffee.
In the kitchen, the house is already alive. Aunt Dee hums under her breath while flipping pancakes. The TV murmurs morning news. Jayden and Mia are arguing about syrup distribution like it’s a war crime tribunal.
Darren stands at the counter pouring coffee into two mismatched mugs, head bent, mouth soft like he’s smiling at a private thought. That’s when he glances up and sees me. Everything in him changes. Subtle. But there.
His shoulders straighten. His eyes warm and sharpen at once. His attention hits me like sunlight through a magnifying glass.
“Hey,” he murmurs.
“Hey,” I reply, trying not to trip over my own bare feet.
Aunt Dee spots me and immediately abandons her spatula to envelope me in a hug that smells like vanilla and boundaries nobody listens to. “Sleep okay, baby?”
“Yeah,” I say, surprising myself with how true it is. “Actually ... yeah.”
“Good.” She presses a kiss to my cheek like she’s known me forever. “Eat before these hyenas finish it all.”
“We’re not hyenas!” Mia protests with pancake in her hair.
“We’re absolutely hyenas,” Jayden says cheerfully.
Darren hands me my mug, fingers brushing mine, lingering half a second longer than strictly necessary. Electricity zips up my arm.
“Careful,” he says softly. “It’s hot.”
“So am I,” I say automatically, then freeze, horrified.
His brows shoot up. Aunt Dee chokes. The kids giggle like gremlins.
“I...” I cover my face with my free hand. “I meant the coffee. I didn’t... Dear God, can someone set me back on fire? It would be less embarrassing.”
Darren’s laugh is low and wicked and pleased. “Noted,” he says. “And yes. You are.”
I lower my hand slowly. “You’re impossible.”
He winks. “Self-defense lesson after breakfast?”
I blink. “Today?”
“Unless you’re not up to it.” He studies me carefully, not pushing, not assuming, just offering.
Fear and something suspiciously like excitement twist together low in my belly. The idea of learning how to hit back, not just emotionally, not just verbally, but physically, terrifies me in the way jumping into the ocean does. It’s huge, it’s unknown, but maybe it’s freedom too.
“Yeah,” I say before I can overthink it. “Let’s do it.”
He nods once like he just got handed a mission. “We’ll start slow.”
Breakfast is chaos again, but this time I’m part of it instead of watching from the edge.
Jayden demands to know if librarians are allowed to “secretly ban books about broccoli.” Mia wants to braid my hair. Aunt Dee pretends not to see Darren staring at me over his coffee like I’m a puzzle he enjoys solving.
After helping with the dishes, he leads me to the backyard.
The morning air is crisp, and the grass is damp beneath my borrowed sneakers.
A faint breeze tugs at my hair. A tall wooden fence encloses the yard in warm, homey privacy.
There’s a worn heavy bag hanging from a thick tree branch, a stack of battered training pads, and a folding table with chalk drawings all over it courtesy of the kids.
He turns to face me.
“Okay,” he says, suddenly all focus. “Rule number one. You don’t need permission to take up space.”
My laugh is shaky. “You’re starting with philosophy?”
“I’m starting with the shit in your head,” he says calmly. “Because that’s where he lives right now. And we’re evicting him.”
Something tightens and then loosens in my chest.
“Place your feet shoulder width apart,” he continues, stepping closer, tapping my ankle lightly with his toes to spread my stance. “Knees loose. Weight on the balls of your feet.”
I mimic him, feeling ridiculous and powerful at the same time.
His hands come up, hovering near my hips. “May I?”
The fact that he asks is my undoing. “Yes,” I breathe.
He adjusts my hips gently, barely touching, heat bleeding through the thin fabric of my leggings. My breath stutters. He pretends not to notice, but the bastard can’t quite hide his smile.
“Good,” he murmurs, voice dipping. “Now hands up. Protect your face and keep your chin tucked.”
“I have never punched anything in my life,” I confess.
He grins. “We’re about to change that. You’re going to punch me.”
My head jerks back. “What? No!”
He slips on the padded mitts and lifts them. “These. Not my face. Yet.”
“Yet?” I squeak.
“Motivation,” he says cheerfully. “All right, librarian. Make a fist.”
I curl my fingers instinctively and he groans.
“Not like that,” he says, and gently uncurls my grip. “Thumb outside, not tucked in. You like your thumbs? Keep them.”
“Oh,” I mutter. “Right. Good tip.”
He positions my fist again, knuckles aligned. “Now, when you hit, you’re not slapping. You’re driving through the target, like you’re punching past it. Rotate your hips. Your body is the weapon. Not just your arm.”
“That sounds ... dangerous.”
“That’s the point.”
He lifts the pad. “Whenever you’re ready. Just tap at first. Get used to the contact.”
I tap. It makes a pathetic little pap sound like an unimpressed hamster.
He smiles softly. “Again.”
I hit harder. “Good. Again.”
Something primal wakes up in my chest. Something that remembers slamming cabinet doors in rage I wasn’t allowed to show. Something that remembers staying quiet so I wouldn’t be “too much.”
I punch again.
“Good,” he murmurs, warmth and approval threaded through every word. “Again. Rotate your hips. Breathe with it.”
I do. And it feels ... good. Not violent. Not out of control. But controlled, focused, and necessary.
He shifts pads. “Now, other hand.”
We fall into a rhythm. My breath comes faster and my muscles warm. Sweat prickles at my hairline. He calls small instructions, “guard up,” “elbow in,” “yes, just like that”, until my body stops thinking and just does.
Then he steps closer. Dangerously close. I can feel his body heat, smell soap and skin and that faint metallic tang of the smoke that clings to him no matter how much he showers.
“All right,” he says quietly. “Scenario time.”
“No,” I say immediately.
“Yes,” he counters gently. “Because your body needs to know what to do when your brain shuts down. And it will. That’s normal. But muscle memory can save your life.”
My hands tremble slightly and he sees it.
He softens. “We go slow. You’re in control. You call it off whenever you’re tired or even if you feel uncomfortable. Okay?”
I nod, my throat drier than the Nevada desert. He reaches out and wraps his hand around my wrist. Not tight and not threatening. Just simple contact.
Every nerve in my body lights up anyway before a memory flashes through my mind, another hand on my wrist, yanking, dragging, bruising, and my breath spikes.
“Hey,” Darren says immediately, dropping my wrist and stepping back. Palms up. Non-threatening. “There you are. Look at me.”
I drag my gaze up to his. Brown eyes, warm and steady and anchored on me like he’s not going anywhere.
“You’re here,” he says softly. “In the backyard with the morning sunshine beating down on you. The kids are inside fighting over cartoons and Aunt Dee’s pretending she’s not listening. I’m Darren. You’re Olivia. He’s not here.”
The panic loosens its claws.
“I’m here,” I whisper.
He nods. “Good. May I touch your wrist again?”
“Yes,” I say, firmer this time.
He takes it. “Now,” he says, voice low, teaching-mode back on, “I’m an asshole grabbing you. First move isn’t to yank back. That gives him what he wants, your balance. You step in,” he shifts closer, guiding me, “break his angle, rotate your arm like this—yes, good —and pull free.”
I do it. And it fucking works. Easily. Shock floods me. “Holy shit.”
He grins. “Language.”
“Fuck you,” I shoot back, euphoric.
He laughs, delighted. “There she is.”
We practice. More wrist grips. How to break a chokehold by twisting and striking the soft parts—eyes, throat, groin.
How to stomp a foot hard enough to make a man regret every life choice.
He never manhandles me. Never surprises me.
Every single touch is asked for. Every step is narrated. Every success is praised.
And every time I get something right, something inside me straightens.
Finally, he steps back, mitts dropping to his sides. “Last thing for today,” he says. “Say it.”
“Say what?”
“The sentence you’re allergic to.”
I scowl. “I don’t...”
He interrupts before I can finish the denial. “Olivia.” His tone is gentle steel. “Say it.”
My heart pounds and my mouth goes dry.
“I...” The word claws its way up my throat, past old lies, past his voice in my head telling me I’m worthless, past years of shrinking. “I deserve ... to exist.”
He shakes his head slightly, warmth in his eyes. “More.”
“I deserve ... better,” I say, stronger now. “I deserve to be safe. I deserve...” My voice breaks. “I deserve love that doesn’t hurt.”
Silence falls except for the wind stirring the trees. He drops the mitts completely and closes the distance between us in two slow steps, giving me time to move away if I want.
I don’t.
His knuckles brush my cheek, feather light. “You deserve everything,” he says, voice wrecked. “And if anyone ever tries to tell you different again, I will personally introduce his face to every hard surface in Kidds Beach.”
A startled laugh bubbles out of me, tangled with tears. “That’s not very mature conflict resolution.”
“I’m just a fetus, remember? I’m not very mature,” he says seriously. “I just look like it in uniform.”
We stand there, too close, but not close enough, the air between us crackling with everything neither of us is quite brave enough to do yet.
I lean in a fraction and he freezes. Not because he doesn’t want me, his pupils are blown wide, and jaw tight, but because he’s waiting. Always waiting. Always letting me choose.
It’s intoxicating. And terrifying. I retreat a half step, my pulse racing.
“Shower?” I say weakly. “I probably smell like hospital and existential crisis.”
He smiles, slow and filthy. “You smell like a woman who could absolutely ruin me.”
Heat explodes under my skin.
“Darren.”
“Yeah?”
“Stop flirting.”
“No,” he says easily.
I groan and shove his shoulder.
He steals my breath by catching my wrist for a split second, demonstration-reflex, and then letting go like it burned him. “Lesson two tomorrow,” he murmurs.
I nod and turn toward the house, trying not to sway my hips too much because I am not the type of woman men get stupid over.
Except he already is. Or that’s the way it seems at least. And somehow, that scares me less than the idea of him stopping.