Jordan grabbed his hand wraps from his gym bag and started the familiar process of winding them around his knuckles. The fabric was still slightly damp from Tuesday’s session, carrying that particular gym smell that would have disgusted him a month ago. Now it felt like preparation. Like ritual.

Maya waited by the ring with her arms crossed, watching him wrap with the same critical eye she applied to everything. Her gaze tracked each loop of fabric, each pass between his fingers, cataloging his technique for flaws she could exploit later.

"Tighter on the left." She didn’t phrase it as a suggestion. "You’re leaving gaps between your knuckles."

Jordan adjusted without argument. Three weeks of training with Maya had taught him that arguing wasted energy he would need later when she started throwing body shots that felt like getting hit by a small car.

Kyle had returned to his heavy bag work, but Jordan could feel his friend’s attention split between the leather and the ring. Leo had finally put down his phone, apparently deciding that watching Jordan get beaten up by a beautiful woman qualified as entertainment worth his attention.

"Clinch work." Jordan ducked through the ropes and entered the ring. The canvas felt familiar under his feet now, that slight give that absorbed impact and returned energy. "You mentioned that on Tuesday. What exactly are we covering?"

Maya’s smile didn’t reach her eyes.

"Close range fighting. What happens when someone gets inside your guard and you can’t create distance." She stepped closer, close enough that Jordan could smell her shampoo underneath the sweat. Something floral mixed with something sharper. "Most boxers panic when their opponent closes the gap. They try to clinch defensively, hold on, wait for the referee to break them apart."

"I’m guessing that’s not what you’re going to teach me."

"I’m going to teach you to hurt people when they think they’re safe."

Maya’s hands came up and grabbed his shoulders without warning.

The grip was strong enough to dimple his skin through his tank top. Her fingers dug into the meat of his deltoids with the kind of pressure that walked the line between painful and something else entirely. Jordan’s body reacted before his brain could catch up, a flush of heat that had nothing to do with the gym’s temperature spreading across his chest.

"When someone clinches you, your instinct is to push away." Maya’s face was inches from his. Her dark eyes held that intense focus that made her terrifying in the ring. "Don’t. Pushing away creates space they can exploit. Instead, you control the clinch. You make it yours."

She demonstrated by pulling him forward and down, using her grip on his shoulders to throw his balance off center. Jordan stumbled into her, his chest pressing against hers for a brief moment that sent signals to parts of his brain that had no business being active during combat training.

Maya didn’t seem to notice. Or if she did, she didn’t care.

"Feel how I’m controlling your posture? I’m not stronger than you, but I’m dictating where your weight goes." She shifted her grip, one hand sliding to the back of his neck while the other hooked under his arm. "From here, I can throw knees. Elbows. Short punches you won’t see coming."

Jordan tried to focus on the lesson instead of the warmth of her palm against his neck.

It wasn’t easy.

Maya Santos was the kind of woman who made focusing difficult under normal circumstances. Up close, with her body pressed against his and her breath warm on his collarbone, focusing became nearly impossible.

Her abs pressed against his stomach—ridged muscle that flexed with each micro-adjustment of her balance. The compression fabric did nothing to hide the definition, the evidence of thousands of hours spent conditioning her body into something that could withstand punishment Jordan couldn’t imagine. Her thighs brushed his when she shifted her stance, and the contact sent a jolt through his nervous system that had nothing to do with technique and everything to do with the fact that he was eighteen years old and Maya Santos was touching him on purpose.

The old Jordan would’ve already apologized three times and developed a visible problem that would’ve ended the session in humiliation. The new Jordan—the one who’d been doing this for weeks now—gritted his teeth and focused on the mechanics. Weight distribution. Balance points. The physics of control instead of the warmth of her skin against his.

It helped. Barely.

"Your turn." She released him and stepped back, putting three feet of blessed distance between them. "Grab me like I grabbed you."

Jordan reached for her shoulders, trying to mimic the decisive grip she’d used on him.

Maya’s hands intercepted his wrists before he got close. Her fingers wrapped around his forearms with enough pressure to stop his momentum completely. Not painful, but firm. Absolute.

"Too slow. Too telegraphed." She repositioned his hands herself, guiding them to her shoulders with a grip that felt almost clinical in its precision. "There. Now pull me in."

Jordan pulled.

Maya came forward willingly, her body flowing into his space with the kind of grace that only came from years of learning how to occupy positions designed to make other people uncomfortable.

Her forehead nearly touched his chin. The top of her head was right there, close enough that he could smell her shampoo—something clean and faintly citrus that cut through the gym’s familiar scent of leather and old sweat.

Her chest pressed against his sternum, the sports bra doing its job but not enough to completely neutralize the contact.

Her hips were close enough that shifting his weight wrong would create contact he wasn’t prepared to explain, wasn’t sure she’d let him explain, wasn’t certain he wanted to explain.

"Good." The word came out soft, almost intimate. "Now control my posture. Push my head down while pulling my shoulder toward you."

Jordan tried.

His hand on the back of her neck felt the smooth skin there, the slight dampness of sweat, the heat radiating off her body. He pushed down while pulling her shoulder, and Maya folded forward exactly the way she’d described, her face dropping toward his chest.

"Better." She straightened without his permission, breaking his grip with a subtle twist that made his control evaporate. "But you’re hesitating. You’re thinking about where to put your hands instead of committing to the position."

"I’m trying not to be inappropriate."

The words came out before Jordan could stop them.

Maya’s expression didn’t change, but something shifted behind her eyes. A flicker of something that might have been amusement or might have been disappointment.

"This is fighting, McKnight. There’s nothing inappropriate about combat." She grabbed him again, this time with more force, her body slamming into his with enough impact to steal his breath.

"When someone’s trying to hurt you, you don’t get to worry about where your hands land. You survive first. You apologize later."