Page 78 of This Life of Mine

“When was your last date?”

“Been a while,” he quickly replies.

“Too busy?” I tease.

“Something like that.”

I nod my head slightly. “Busy enough to avoid dating entirely…or busy enough to keep things uncomplicated?”

One corner of his mouth lifts. “You asking if I have friends-with-benefits?”

I shrug, aiming for casual. “Just gathering intel.”

He doesn’t answer but doesn’t deny it either.

And to my surprise, something tightens in my gut.

Envy? Surely not jealousy.Huh.

I turn back toward the mat and focus on the moves.

“Good. “ You’re doing really well,” he says.

He stands, feet planted apart as if he’s braced for impact, arms folded across his chest. Watching me with that assessing calm, like I’m a problem he already knows how to solve. His jaw is set, clean and strong. A few strands of dark hair have fallen loose over his forehead, messier now than when we started, andthe contrast—control everywhere else, chaos right there—does something useless to my pulse.

“So is that Krav Maga Grand Master approval or Alex approval?”

“Yes,” he replies.

I huff a laugh, the sound echoing off the walls, partly because it’s funny and partly because laughing keeps me from thinking about how easily he could pin me if he wanted to—and how much I don’t feel afraid of that fact—how much I might really enjoy it.

Where’s the joking banter I’m looking for?

“You flirt like you fight. So serious.” I tease.

“I don’t flirt,” he says.

“Oh, I see, you’re so hot the girls just come running before you have to lift a finger?” I ask.

“So you think I’m hot?” he asks, smirking in that sexy way.

“Liar, you do flirt,” I declare.

He chuckles. Then he steps behind me, close to where my body registers him before my brain does. His chest is a solid presence at my back, broad and steady.

I like feeling smaller like this. Anchored.

“If someone comes from behind,” he says, voice deep and calm, “you don’t freeze. You drop your weight. You strike vulnerable points. You create space.”

The words are practical and tactical. My thoughts are not.

“Space seems…optional,” I tease lightly, even as my pulse jumps, because his breath brushes by my ear and my traitorous brain keeps supplying images that are completely uninvited.

“For survival,” he corrects. “For everything else…” He trails off.

That’s when I turn in his arms.

I close myself in, and the air between us is charged, alive. His eyes are darker up close, unreadable. His jaw tightens slightly, like he’s locking something down instead of letting it loose.