Page 12 of Ethan
Oh no.
I heard it. I heard myself say it. His eyes widened slightly, and I wanted to disappear into the floor.
“I’ll do better next time,” I finished lamely.
Ethan cleared his throat and set the cup down with exaggerated care.
A beat passed. I forced my shoulders to relax and took a step forward, trying again.
“So, uh. Like I was saying, since I’m new and all, I thought maybe, if you’re free you could show me around town? You know. If you wanted to,” I said.
He didn’t say anything right away. Just looked at me. Not with annoyance, not exactly. More like suspicion mixed with interest.
Like he was trying to figure out if I was messing with him or if I was actually this much of a mess all the time.
“Well,” he said slowly, “you’ve already given me a sugar coma and traumatized a child before breakfast. Might as well see what other chaos you bring.”
My heart did a strange, hopeful little flip. “So that’s a yes?”
“I’ll think about it,” he said.
Which wasn’t a no.
I nodded, unable to hide the grin tugging at my mouth. “Cool. Yeah. Okay. You think about it.”
He turned and walked back down the hall toward a storage room, coffee in one hand, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe I existed.
But he hadn’t said no, and that was something.
“Let’s start over.” Those were the first words out of Griffin’s mouth when I stepped onto the training yard that morning.
He stood in the center of the open space, arms crossed, the morning light catching on the lean muscle of his arms. His voice wasn’t smug or condescending. Just calm. Measured.
Like yesterday’s scuffle hadn’t ended with me almost bleeding out on the hallway floor.
I looked down at his outstretched hand. Suspicious, cautious. Old instincts itched under my skin. Thornebane instincts that didn’t trust easily, especially not when a hand looked too friendly.
Still, I reached out and shook it. His grip was firm. Not crushing. Just enough to saywe don’t have to keep hating each other.
“Alright,” he said, stepping back. “We’ll start with warm-ups. Let’s see what kind of shape you’re in.”
I followed his lead. Lunges, stretches, footwork drills. My body protested every movement. Yesterday’s fight left my ribs sore, and the night’s restless sleep hadn’t helped.
Still, I gritted my teeth and pushed through.
Back in Thornebane, training meant being thrown to the wolves. Literally. They believed pain was a teacher and cruelty a motivator.
You either learned to fight or got left behind. Drown or claw your way out. But Griffin wasn’t like that. Despite our bad start yesterday, I could tell that he was holding back.
Not patronizing, but cautious. His strikes were controlled. He adjusted his movements when I winced, careful not to aggravate my bruised side.
I didn’t know what to make of that. Part of me expected him to try and humiliate me again. Maybe he still would. But so far? He was decent.
“You’ve got power,” he said as we circled each other. “You just burn too hot.”
“Gee. Thanks,” I mumbled.
He smirked and lunged. I blocked, countered, and almost landed a hit. The momentum carried us through a few more fast-paced exchanges, and something started to click.
