The sun hadn't fully risen yet.
Mist hugged the edges of the dojo's bamboo floor, spilling low across the woven mats as the sun threatened the horizon. The only sounds were the sharp cracks of a strike, the shuffle of bare feet across woven mats, the quiet grunts of focus.
Celina moved like a loaded weapon.
Her fists were wrapped tight, sweat already clinging to her temples. She shifted into her stance again, grounding herself. Her breathing was controlled but only just. Fury simmered under the surface, barely masked by discipline.
Across from her stood Ismael. Calm. Watchful. His guard was looser than hers but no less lethal. There was no smile on his face, only that careful silence of someone who knew how and when to kill.
She attacked first.
A jab. Cross. Low kick.
Ismael deflected all three with practiced ease, turning her aggression into nothing with a turn of his hips and a calculated flick of his wrist. He moved like water through stone, Krav Maga, Aikido, that deadly blend of precision and restraint. Every motion whispered of control she hadn't yet mastered.
She came again, harder.
A spinning back elbow. A knee that nearly grazed his ribs.
He stepped aside just in time, catching her wrist and twisting her arm behind her back in a flash of practiced motion.
"You're going to dislocate your hip if you keep swinging like that," he said.
Celina grit her teeth. "I said I'm fine."
Ismael didn't let go. Instead, he swept her legs out from under her, landing her hard on the mat. She hit with a solid thud but rolled back up, breath ragged.
"You're not," he said calmly. "Your body's two seconds ahead of your brain."
She lunged again. Reckless. Angry.
He caught her mid-strike, spinning her around and pinning her from behind in one fluid movement. His voice dropped, steady in her ear.
"What are you trying to fight off, Celina?"
Her chest rose and fell too quickly. Her heart was louder than the birds beginning to stir outside.
Ismael's grip eased.
"Whatever happened... if you're not ready to talk, fine. But don't take it out on your own body."
She yanked away.
"I'm in control, Ismael," she snapped, too fast. Her voice cracked at the end, betraying the truth.
She didn't sound convincing.
As she rewrapped her bleeding knuckles tighter than necessary, Ismael just stood there. Watching.
After a beat, he asked quietly, "Do you still dance?"
The question caught her off-guard.
She turned sharply, jaw tight. "You're just my trainer now. You are not allowed to ask about my personal life." Her words came out like a blade, too quick, too sharp—meant to wound, not explain. The edge in her tone betrayed the crack beneath, the part of her that still hadn't figured out where to put the pain.
But his words had already struck a nerve. Unbidden, she thought of the unopened messages from her manager. The ones she hadn't dared read.
Ismael gave a bitter smile. "We were more than that."
She looked him straight in the eye. "That's history. We were kids back then."
He didn't follow when she left the dojo. Her spine was straight, her pace deliberate but every step bled with determination.
After her training, she decided to give Rafael a visit. The basement was colder this morning.
Celina didn't hesitate this time. She carried a tray with food, another pouch of bandages, and a thin towel. Her movements were smooth, efficient. But beneath them, her mind echoed.
Control.
She had to control this.
Rafael was seated, wrists chained, as always. He looked up when she entered, expression unreadable. Maybe it was the dim light. Maybe she was just getting worse at reading him.
She didn't sit.
"I'll bring food. I'll check your wounds," she said flatly, setting the tray down between them. "But we're not allies. We're not friends."
Rafael cocked his head, amused.
She crouched beside him and reached for his arm. He winced—on purpose.
"Careful," he murmured. "I might start thinking you care."
She shot him a glare. "If I cared, I wouldn't be here."
"But you are," he said, voice lower now. "Every day."
His breath brushed her cheek. She jerked back a little too fast.
She looked at him, jaw tight. "I'm just here to take care of my pet. Nothing more. Nothing less."
Rafael's lips curved into a slow, mocking smile. "You sure treat your pets well. Almost makes me want to misbehave more often."
His gaze dragged deliberately down her body before returning to her eyes, thick with innuendo. "Or maybe you're just into broken things with sharp teeth," he murmured, voice like velvet over glass. "Sharp teeth that know exactly where to bite."
"Shut up," she snapped, fury flashing in her eyes. But her hands trembled.
She resumed checking his ribs, cleaning and wrapping without comment.
Her hand brushed lower, accidentally, near his hip.
He tensed.
So did she.
Neither said anything for a beat. But the memory sparked between them how his hot skin, breath, the way her back had hit the wall.
"You didn't answer me," he said finally.
She didn't look at him. "About what?"
"Whether you liked it."
Her hands paused.
Then she slapped the bandage in place harder than needed.
He grunted, but smiled.
She pulled away.
"You don't get to ask me that," she said tightly. "You don't get to talk about it at all."
He watched her, maddeningly calm. "Then why are you still thinking about it?"
She turned, sharply.
"I said—"
"You said the rules." His voice didn't rise. "I heard them. I just didn't agree to follow them."
Her tray clattered slightly as she snatched it up.
She stormed toward the door, jaw clenched so tightly it ached.
Outside, she slammed it behind her and leaned against the wall.
Her breath came in short bursts, her pulse pounding so loud it drowned everything else.
And the worst part wasn't that he disrespected the rules—it was that some small, traitorous part of her had hoped he would.
That scared her more than anything else.