Page 93 of My Vigilante Valentine

No big deal.

Not distracting at all.

Or, at least, that was what I told myself as we worked through a warm-up.

I ignored it all—the way she moved, the quiet, satisfied hums she made every time she hit a good stretch. How ridiculously flexible she was.

I was impervious to all of it.

I’m lying. It’s fine.

Except, it wasn’t fine, because a very real part of training sometimes meant adjustments to form, and that was basically the last thing I wanted to help her with.

Why?

Because Luna Wilde lived to mess with me, and if she saw an opening to make me sweat, she’d take it—in a heartbeat.

“Why do you look like that?” she asked, wrinkling her nose.

I scrubbed my hands over my face, gesturing vaguely in her direction. “Your form needs work.”

“So… fix it?”

I gulped, bracing myself as I stepped forward. I moved behind her to adjust her stance, and just as I’d feared, the moment my hands settled on her waist, she leaned into me and sighed.

“I was being serious,” I said through a short laugh. “I really wanted to help you with your form. It wasn’t a pick-up line.”

She angled her head and looked over her shoulder at me, her surprise totally sincere. “Really? This isn’t a strategic cuddle break?”

I wordlessly shook my head.

“You sure?”

“Luna.”

“What?” she asked innocently, though the way she leaned into me was anything but.

Deep breath. “Menace. Focus.”

She laughed, but straightened with a nod. “Fine, fine. But just so you know? This whole strict teacher thing you’ve got going on? Totally into it.”

Someone help me.

I took a deliberate step back before I did something stupid—like forgetting about training entirely.

“Okay,” I said, forcing myself to think straight. “Let’s start with some basic blocks and strikes.”

“Ready.”

And then, for the next hour, I walked her through the self-defense techniques, and to exactly no one’s surprise, she picked them up fast. Luna Wilde might be an impulsive, habitual menace to my senses… but she also loved to learn.

She adapted, and she put in the work.

And she never once complained.

“Good,” I praised her after she successfully blocked a slow punch. “Now faster.”

We ran through the techniques again, speeding up little by little. She stumbled sometimes—but never quit.

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