The training room is all glass and steel.
Minimal.
Intentional.
Kore's defensive division insisted on a physical response unit. Mara approved it without hesitation.
Now she stands barefoot on the mat, hair pulled back, sleeves rolled to her elbows.
Ethan watches from across the room.
"You're distracted," he says calmly.
"I'm focused," she replies.
He steps closer.
"Prove it."
There's a flicker in her eyes.
Challenge accepted.
She moves first.
Fast.
Precise.
He blocks easily.
Too easily.
Her jaw tightens.
"You're anticipating," she says.
"I always anticipate."
She pivots, attempts a sweep.
He catches her wrist.
Momentum shifts.
Suddenly her back is nearly against his chest.
One of his hands still wrapped around her wrist.
The other hovering near her waist — not touching.
Yet.
Her breath changes.
Barely.
He notices.
"You telegraph your weight shift," he murmurs near her ear.
His voice is lower now.
Instructional.
But something underneath it hums.
She twists sharply, breaking his hold, spinning to face him.
Closer than before.
Their chests almost brushing.
"You're overconfident," she counters.
His mouth tilts slightly.
"Am I?"
She lunges again.
This time he doesn't block.
He redirects.
And suddenly she's pressed lightly against the wall.
Not trapped.
Just contained.
His forearm braced beside her head.
The other hand at her hip to steady the impact.
Her pulse is visible at her throat.
He sees it.
Feels it.
They're breathing the same air now.
The room is quiet except for it.
"Again," he says.
But he doesn't move away.
Her hands are flat against his chest.
Solid muscle.
Controlled strength.
She could push him back.
She doesn't.
Instead, she looks up at him slowly.
No fear.
No retreat.
Just heat.
"You're holding back," she says quietly.
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
"You want me not to?"
Dangerous.
Her fingers curl slightly into his shirt.
Not pulling.
Testing.
"Don't treat me like I'll break."
He searches her face for doubt.
Finds none.
Only certainty.
He leans in just enough that his mouth is near her temple.
Not kissing.
Not yet.
"I'm not worried about you breaking," he says softly.
"I'm worried about me."
That lands.
The air shifts.
She inhales slowly.
And this time—
She bridges the inch.
Just enough that her lips nearly touch his.
Almost.
Not quite.
The tension snaps tight between them.
Then —
Footsteps outside the glass.
Voices passing.
Reality.
He steps back immediately.
Distance restored.
Professional.
But his breathing isn't steady.
Neither is hers.
She straightens her posture.
"Again," she says.
But her voice is different now.
Lower.
Aware.
This isn't just training anymore.
And they both know it.