Page 46 of Welded Defender
“What?” I ask, caught between a laugh and a frown.
“A punch.” He makes a slow-motion fist and swings it through the air. “Pow.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “Why are you asking me that?”
“Because you,” he says, straightening to full height, “look like someone who’s been ducking shadows for way too long. Which, by the way, smart move. But…” He tilts his head, his grin softening. “Wouldn’t it feel better to have some tools? A way to push back if you ever needed to?”
My heart pounds faster. Fear tangles with something else—curiosity, maybe.
“Ravi…”
He lifts his hands, palms out. “No pressure. You don’t have to turn into some action hero. Just—if you want to learn a few basics, I can help.”
I hesitate. The knot in my stomach twists, but the way he says it—light, easy, like he’s offering poker lessons—takes the sting out of the fear.
“…what kind of basics?” I ask.
His grin lights up the whole corner of the garage. “That’s my girl. C’mon.”
He clears a space near the back wall, dragging a stool aside with a dramatic flourish. “Lesson one: stance. This isn’t about fighting. It’s about not looking like a target.”
I step where he points, my skin prickling. Metal clangs against metal as Becket drops a wrench in the bay. Joon’s radio crackles with static between songs. The smell of motor oil hangs thick in the air, mingling with coffee from the pot that’s been brewing since six. When I shift my weight, my boot squeaks against the concrete floor—too loud. From the corner of my eye, I catch Landon’s reflection in the polished chrome of a nearby fender. His hands have stilled on the carburetor, grease-stained fingers frozen mid-adjustment.
“Feet shoulder-width,” Ravi says, sliding into place opposite me. “One a little back. Knees soft. Hands up—not fists. Just ready.”
I copy him, clumsy.
He squints. “Hmm. You look like you’re waiting for the school bus.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “I told you I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“Exactly why I’m here.” He nudges my elbow up with two fingers. “There. Better. Shoulders square. Chin down. Own the space.”
I shift, finding my balance. This time it feels different. Stronger.
“Perfect,” Ravi says solemnly. “Terrifying. I’d run.”
A sound escapes my throat—half-snort, half-giggle—that I barely recognize as mine. My hand flies to my mouth, but Ravi’s grin only widens.
“Now, if I grab your wrist like this—” His fingers circle my forearm, warm and firm but not tight. “Don’t pull back. That’s instinct. Instead—” He demonstrates a twisting motion. When I try it, my elbow knocks against his shoulder, and I nearly trip over my own feet.
“Sorry,” I mumble, steadying myself against the workbench.
“For what? First try.” He repositions my stance with a light touch at my elbow. “Plant your heel. There. If someone bigger tries to drag you—” He mimes pulling me forward. “Drop your weight. Like sitting in an invisible chair.”
I try again, and this time I stay grounded.
“Good—except maybe don’t pet my arm while you’re escaping.”
“Pet?” I repeat, half-laughing, half-mortified.
“Yeah, you did this little—” He runs a hand down his arm like he’s smoothing fabric. “Cute, but not intimidating.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling too.
“Not bad,” he says after a few tries. “You’re picking this up faster than my sister did.”
“You taught your sisters?”
