Fundamentals and First Impressions

[Parker]

Perhaps the most underrated perk of signing with LAW was the relief of not having to suffer the stares anymore. At a normal gym, nobody blinked at the rhythm of the speed bag, the clank of plates on a barbell, or the shuffle of sneakers around the jogging track. But when you spend as much time as she did, hunched over like a gargoyle on the mats running solo amateur wrestling drills? Suddenly, every meathead and cardio queen became dumbfounded, tilting their heads like they’d never seen someone shoot a double-leg takedown into thin air before. While always the outgoing social butterfly, having to explain herself to every curious passerby was the quickest way to knock her out of the zen state that came with solid repetition.

Tonight, though,

had the mat tucked off to the side of LAW’s training center, a whole corner of canvas and padding to herself with a view of the rest of the gym buzzing away. She crouched low, knees bent and weight distributed evenly, hands out and on the prowl. Then… snap. She pivoted sharply, dropping to one knee, one hand brushing the mat for balance before springing back to her feet opposite where she had begun.

She repeated it again, this time snapping into a tight half-turn, shoulders lowering as if to cinch an invisible opponent’s waist. A pop of the hips, a shift in her stance, then back into the base position. People here understood… heck, someone yesterday complimented her on her form! Everything she did had meaning. Every pivot mattered, every knee-drop, every sprawl, built that muscle memory, making her job in the ring that much easier when adrenaline burned hot and decision making became fuzzy.

The drills weren’t flashy, but Parker made them hers anyway. A little bounce on the balls of her feet here, a smirk when she felt she hit clean executions back to back. Quick flair mixed into the grind. Wrestling, at its heart, was equal parts repetition and improvisation. Hours of doing the same thing until it was second nature and having a firm grip of the fundamentals so every problem could be responded to with a concise answer.

[Lightman]

stretched out her shoulders with a long exhale, the faint sting of exertion in her joints a welcome reminder that this was finally her time, not anyone else’s. No clipboard to carry, no bright-eyed rookies to humour with their delusions of grandeur, no office calls pestering her about scheduling. Just the mats, her body, and the steady rhythm of movement that had been the backbone of her life long before LAW. She relished that peace, the way repetition sharpened everything, until it was no longer a task but instinct.

She had long since grown accustomed to being the oddity in a room; years of tying herself in knots on tatami mats or tangling with bodies twice her size had taught her that most people did not understand the rhythm of drills. They understood the end product, the clash, the spectacle. But the hours of hunched repetition? That was where the true craft lived.

The younger woman’s frame cut sharp angles with each drop and pivot, her balance held true, her intent carved into the mat as if she were wrestling ghosts only she could see. Madeline paused mid-stretch, arms folding as a sly grin crept onto her lips. She knew those motions, recognised the meticulous rewinding and replaying of muscle memory, the grind until breath and instinct became indistinguishable. It was not flashy, but there was an art in it, the sort of art Madeline had always respected.

Rather than leave Parker to her silent war, she strolled across the mats, the tap of her feet deliberate. Her gaze lingered on the clean sprawl, the sharp reset to stance, the little bounce and smirk when Parker knew she had nailed it. That flash of personality layered atop strict discipline was familiar. Madeline let a warm chuckle slip. “Not bad.” she called, tone teasing but never dismissive. “I was beginning to think I was the only one in this place who still bothered with the ugly work. Most of the girls here would rather perfect their hair flips than their hip pops.”

She stopped at the mat’s edge, hands resting on her hips, head tilted just enough for the light to catch the spark in her eyes. “You’ve got good habits. Sharp. Crisp. You don’t stumble even when no one’s watching. That’s rare.” Her smile curved slyly, tongue brushing against the corner of her lip. “Makes me wonder how long it’d take to shake you out of that rhythm. A minute? Maybe two?"

Her laugh that followed was smooth, carrying more challenge than mockery, the sound of someone who had lived too long in the grind to mistake discipline for pretence. She crouched then, knees folding with the grace of habit, one hand brushing the mat as though to test its pulse. “Still…” she added more softly, the playful lilt giving way to something warmer, “…there’s no rush. Ghosts make fine company. Though I suppose you’d prefer a human being to play the body than hunting phantoms. Improvisation tastes sweeter when you’ve got someone pushing back.”

[Parker]

She heard her one woman audience approach by no merit of her acute awareness in the moment, but the deliberate impact of footfalls the polished floors. It had been enough to cut through the quiet strain and friction of canvas complimented with a breath synced to every movement. The brunette was spared the quickest of glances and what was meant to pass as a nod of acknowledgement but was swallowed by a sprawl and rise of her drill. Her control was strong, her form excellent, but not flawless. That wasn’t the point. Perfection didnt win fights.

“Thanks.” The word came out between breaths, short but genuine. A smile tugged at her lips, even as she swatted at the air, lunging to one knee. She tucked her arm, pushed off, and turned, flowing into the motion takedown into a mirrored rise from where she had been. The transition offered her a better look at her admirer, just long enough to register that she appeared suited for a day at the gym in her slick attire than Parker’s own ratty sweatpants and tank top. Another brunette, too. It was only a brief look atter all.

“Hair flips are on Wednesday.” The Canadian quipped in quick response, her delivery serious but betrayed by the crack of a smirk. She hadn’t been here long enough to dig into the average work ethic of her peers, but it was her prerogative to expect the best and prepare for the worst in most aspects of life. If what this stranger implied held any truth, perhaps she had an unknowing edge above some sub section of the competition. That wasn't a terrible thought.

"Well, entertaining is part of it,” Parker added, punctuating the words with a takedown into an outside roll, then back into her squat. She felt the need to defend the absent, even if Madeline’s tone hadn’t seemed to be a harsh one. Better her own merits be measured by what she earned, not by others’ shortcomings. Even if they were simple compliments.

Still, she appreciated this woman’s etiquette. Keeping distance. Leaving mat space. For some, chatting mid-drill might’ve seemed poor form, but Parker welcomed it. Drills were necessary but dull. Unlike her jogs or her lifts, she rolled in silence. No headphones. No music. The sounds mattered, the slap of canvas, the rasp of breath, the scuff of shoes. In a fight, vision narrowed. Ears had to stay open. Everything had to become second nature.

When the flattery continued, she almost felt guilty for not giving this woman more attention of her own to hold an actual conversation. She dropped to knee with a breathy chuckle, low ring her balled fists to the canvas. A long exhale, then she rose to her feet to face Madeline. When she had been in the motions, nothing seemed like a big deal but now as her perspective zoomed out she suddenly felt a bit more aware of herself.

She brushed damp strands of hair from her forehead, chest still rising with steady breaths, and gave the woman a proper once-over. Madeline had the air of a jungle cat on the prowl. Sleek, poised, every angle sharpened by well-fitted gear and a presence that looked like it belonged on a poster. By comparison, Parker sat like a school child in sweat-soaked tank and ratty sweats, dripping from effort while the other seemed coiled to pounce. The gap between them wasn’t hard to feel; she didn’t exactly look the part.

But whatever twinge of self-consciousness tried to creep in was tempered by the sheen clinging to her skin and the ache in her muscles. Sweat was proof of work. It wasn’t glossy or glamorous, but it was honest, and Parker could stand behind that.

She wasn’t exactly sure what to make of Madeline. There was something in her tone, warm, almost inviting, and a hint of something lurking below the surface that kept Parker on edge, like a line was being drawn she couldn’t quite see. Maybe it was just the workout, but her cheeks carried a splash of color that wasn’t there a moment ago. Her eyes broke to the side, dodging the other woman’s steady gaze as she let out a short laugh.

“Consider me shaken... and stirred,” she admitted, the words dry but softened with a crooked grin. Was a James Bond reference too nerdie of an icebreaker? Probably. It was the first thing that poped into her head with the logos on Madeline's clothes. The rookie gestures to the mats, an open invitation to join her.

Straightening up, Parker tugged at the hem of her tank top to let some heat air itself out and finally offered her name. “Parker. I probably should’ve led with that before you caught me looking like I crawled out of a locker.” She gave her sneakers a quick glance, then back at Madeline. “Practice will generally win out over pretending. If you want to roll a bit and don't mind how much of a mess I am, I won't turn away the company… if not , we can play pretend together and show those ghosts whose boss.”

[Lightman]

Madeline had not missed the subtle nod, though it had been swallowed swiftly in Parker’s rhythm of sprawls and rises. It was the half-gesture that belonged to someone so submerged in their own tempo they could only spare the briefest acknowledgement before diving back into the current. She did not mind. In fact, she preferred it. The girl was working, not posturing.

When the clipped “thanks” came, pressed out between breaths, Madeline tilted her head and let the corner of her mouth curl. There was no coyness in it, only the currency of respect exchanged by those who had lived on mats long enough to know what it meant. She lingered at the edge, letting Parker’s cadence wash over her. The slap of canvas, the rhythm of exertion - the sounds she trusted more than any speech about discipline, motivation or drive. It was honest work, and she valued honesty above any sterile attempt at perfection.

The quip about hair flips elicited a low, genuine laugh from her throat, her eyes glinting with quick amusement. “Wednesday, is it? I must have missed the memo.” she said, folding her arms with the faintest arch of a brow. Quick tongue, sharper than most here. It made her tilt her head, studying Parker with interest she hadn’t expected to find on what was meant to be a simple training time.

She stayed where she was, content not to intrude on the woman’s mat, watching instead as Parker rolled, reset, and defended her blend of entertainment and graft. Madeline’s grin lingered, fingertip tapping idly against her arm. “True. Though this game does chew up the one-trick ponies. A touch of theatre balanced by proper mechanics? That will carry you further than you think.”

It was then, as Parker straightened and brushed strands of damp hair from her flushed face, that Madeline let her eyes travel openly and her smirk soften. Sweat was never unbecoming to her. In fact, the sheen on Parker’s shoulders, the damp tendrils of hair sticking to flushed cheeks, spoke of truth. Madeline admired that far more than she did polished gear or posed photographs. The momentary flicker of self-consciousness did not escape her, but she had no intention of letting the rookie shrink beneath it. “You look the part more than most.” she said plainly, voice edged with sincerity. “Clothes don’t win matches. Neither does a mirror.” A fact that Madeline could apply in…other means. She had worn that look once. She had sweated through ratty kits and pushed through drills with nobody watching, long before her name meant anything.

The sudden Bond quip drew another laugh, brighter this time, as she shook her head and let the grin tug wider. “Stirred, are you? Careful, love. That line could earn you a martini instead of a roll, if you catch me in the right mood.” Yet beneath the tease was an acknowledgement. Parker had thrown something forward rather than standing mute, and Madeline respected the attempt. She leaned in slightly, eyes narrowing with playful sharpness. “And if it is ghosts you are sparring with, well… it would be criminal to keep me from the séance.”

When Parker finally gave her name, tugging at her tank as though that might make her seem less bedraggled, Madeline dipped her chin in a nod, tasting the name as she repeated it. “Parker. Fitting. Madeline. And seriously, you look exactly as you should. Sweat is the only fabric that ever truly fits in here.”

She stepped closer, peeling free her jacket and folding it neatly aside, revealing the lean frame of someone etched by years of grappling, conditioning, refining. Muscles sculpted by habit, by grind, by repetition so ingrained it was bone deep. “You offered.” She said simply, her tone crisp and wry. “We'll see if you have more to offer me than the ghosts.”

Madeline dropped into a stance with fluid grace, every line of her body balanced and assured, gaze fixed on Parker with feline intensity. Not looming, overbearing or smothering, but inviting. A predator at ease, waiting for the next movement. “I will not hold your sweat against you.” she murmured, lips quirking with that telltale edge of suggestion. “Though I cannot promise you will not find some of mine on you before we are finished.”

[Parker]

This woman sure was a smooth talker. No amount of self-deprecating humor seemed to fly in her presence; instead, Madeline batted it aside and smothered the young rookie with more flattery than she knew what to do with. Parker wasn’t used to being talked up like this. Compliments usually slid right off her back, or were brushed off with a joke. But this? It had her fidgeting, shifting her weight from one sneaker to the other, the awkward little tell of someone who didn’t know quite where to put the attention. Still, beneath the bashful grin and nervous chuckle, she couldn’t deny it felt good. She enjoyed the fact that every word, every lingering look, was aimed squarely at her. It was new. It was strange. But it wasn’t unwelcome.

She hadn’t meant much by the Bond reference. Just a silly little icebreaker. Madeline had taken it in stride, rolling it around her tongue like fine wine. Parker flashed a goofy grin, rubbing at the back of her neck as she gave a nervous little laugh. It perhaps landed better than intended. Had she actually come across like she was flirting? Maybe. Judging from the gleam in Madeline’s eyes, the other brunette seemed to think so. That alone was enough to paint Parker’s cheeks rosy, her stomach buzzing with an odd little flutter. Madeline was given jg her way too much credit.

“I uh… I like that line. ‘Sweat is the only fabric that ever truly fits here.’” Parker repeated, pitching her voice a little deeper as if she were cutting a cheesy promo. She even squared her shoulders like she was on a stage, wagging a finger toward Madeline with mock gravitas. “Mind if I borrow that sometime? Could slap that on a T-shirt, easy… heh.”

A brief pause before she stirred to motion with a little bounce on her heels as if she had to burn off the energy building in her. Madeline was intense. The kind of intense that most people would shrink under. But for Parker? The rookie found herself liking it more than she’d care to admit. That scrutiny, that razor-sharp focus on her, made her heart race in ways that had nothing to do with cardio drills. There was a thrill in it, a warmth rising in her chest that she assumed was her usual bashfulness.

When Madeline finally peeled off her jacket and made it clear she was just teasing, Parker let out a short laugh, almost a sigh of disbelief. “Alright… I’ll bite,” she said without thinking of whatever implications the comment might have, rolling her shoulders as if bracing herself. Her grin betrayed her nerves, but also her excitement. Parker considered for a moment asking how hard Madeline wanted to go. In the past, her sparring tended to be on the oighter side, saving the real grit from the competition. Things could be different here, with her, but like most things she just as well gave her the benefit of the doubt. So far this other woman had been cordial and considerate.

Parker rose from her knees with a steady push, brushing her damp palms along her sweat pants before settling into motion. Leaning back, she rolled onto the balls of her feet, one sneaker scuffing faintly along the mat as she slid a foot behind her to anchor her stance. Her body shifted low, weight balanced, her posture as pristine and practiced as Madeline had seen it just moments ago. A flick of her wrist followed by a quick shake of her arms loosened the tension, and then she drew them up in front of her chest, elbows tucked, fingers flexing.

The distance between them was enough to let the silence breathe. A taut, expectant hush that hung before a first lock-up. Parker’s eyes lifted, catching Madeline’s steady gaze. Even without moving, the woman’s presence felt heavy, pressing in on her from across the mat. She breathed out a light chuckle to try and ease herself more comfortably into the moment as she inches forward, arms hovering, footfalls light. She kept her arm loose, pliable as she reached out, trying to grasp for a limb. She seemed to be intentionally moving a bit slow, presenting that she was intending on going light.

[Lightman]

Madeline had to admit she rather enjoyed Parker squirming beneath the weight of her words. The fidgeting, the shuffling of sneakers, the nervous little grin. Those were tells as clear as any shift of the hips or twitch of a shoulder on the mat. She had seen veterans crumble under scrutiny far lighter than her own, yet here was this rookie, cheeks coloured, laughter clumsy, still holding her ground. Not hiding. Not excusing. Just learning how to stand in the space someone else’s attention created. There was promise in that, promise she found herself more inclined to draw out.

It made Madeline smile, a softer curve this time, as though to assure the newcomer she meant every word. Parker was welcome to try to brush them aside with awkward humour, but Madeline did not intend to let the truth be dismissed so easily.

The Bond quip had been a throwaway, but Madeline had made a feast of it, and judging from the blush and the flutter it left behind, Parker had not expected her table manners. A smooth talker, was she? Perhaps. But Parker gave herself too little credit. She had landed a grin on her face, after all.

Then came the mock bravado, Parker puffing up her shoulders and parroting back her line in the cadence of a bad promo. Madeline laughed, low and approving, shaking her head slowly. “By all means. Borrow it if you like. But I charge royalties. I can already see it, black print on white cotton, and you strutting about like a preacher with your gospel of sweat.” Her smile tugged wider, a little wicked but never cruel. “Mind you, I would almost buy the shirt myself.”

There was energy bubbling under Parker now, restless, her bounce and her awkward sigh betraying more eagerness than she might have wanted to show. Madeline recognised the signs well. The line between nerves and excitement was always thin at the start, but it was better to tip forward into it than away. She rewarded that honesty with a softer look, a flash of approval in her eyes before slipping out of her jacket and setting it aside.

When Parker muttered, “Alright, I’ll bite”, Madeline’s smirk widened, slow and knowing as she rolled her shoulders. “Careful, now. Polite company frowns upon biting. Though…” Her tone dipped into velvet for a beat before snapping back to her usual cadence. “…if you insist, I have a few tricks in the cupboard to make you regret the taste.”

Parker moved as she had before, clean and balanced, arms loose, stance anchored. Madeline mirrored her with the kind of calm precision that came from a lifetime of doing it. She lowered her centre of gravity, one foot sliding just enough to test the mat’s grip, palms opening rather than closing, her frame coiled but not imposing. When Parker’s hand reached, tentative and light, Madeline let her fingers brush along the wrist, catching without seizing, guiding rather than trapping.

“Good.” The Englishwoman murmured, her voice pitched low, meant for Parker alone. “Frame’s honest. Shoulders down, elbows in. Nice and clean.” She gave the smallest tug, a cue more than a command, the sort of nudge that tested balance without breaking it. The gentlest of introductions. “Feel it, do not force it. Control is far sweeter when you earn it rather than grab for it~.”

Her eyes never left Parker’s as she shifted her own hips just off the line, light on her feet, testing the waters with a slow pressure, a hand sliding to the crook of the elbow in search of leverage. It’s not dominance, not yet at least, but a suggestion. A whisper of what lies in wait if Parker wanted to chase it.

[Parker]

“You know what I mean.” Parker huffed with mock weariness, though the wide grin tugging her lips betrayed her. The expression ruined any hope of selling it, but that was part of the fun. A chatterbox by nature, she couldn’t help but volley back, even if it meant threading through Madeline’s steady rain of compliments and playful barbs. Every word felt like stepping into a minefield, some made her blush, others made her laugh, but it was all conversation, and Parker found herself enjoying the exchange of its uniqueness.

Sparring wasn’t about a show of force. It was a puzzle: part skill, part awareness. The closeness, the hands brushing, shoulders pressing, made the exercise feel real enough to spark instincts, but the slower pace kept the head clear, giving space to learn.

Her defense was deliberate, almost exaggerated in its pacing, shoulders tilting and knees flexing as though she were narrating her movements through her body. Her hand turned over to catch Madeline’s forearm gently as the other woman rolled her fingers towards the crease of her elbow. She tucked the arm in, shoulder out to lead while she withdrew her arm but not breaking contact, but shifting it. The point wasn’t to escape, but to navigate as though the force were real, to treat the simulation with weight.

When Madeline pushed, Parker flowed, shuffled sneakers pivoting on the mat giving ground as needed. Balance was key. Make the opponent reach, make them commit. Without foundation there was nothing to build on.

Parker would try to lead them into a gentle cycle. Testing for an inside tie, then releasing it; shifting for a collar grip, then backing off to let Madeline answer. A call and response dance between the two of them. Testing form, testing focus as they explored one another’s rhythm. If Madeline coached her movements, she adjusted, treating like a learning opportunity rather than an attempt to prove her mettle.

“You move really well…" she observed aloud inearnest, shifting as her forehead nearly brushed against Madeline’s, close so that her light words could he heard over the sounds of the mat work. "How's my pacing?"

[Lightman]

Madeline caught the rookie’s huff for the pretence it was, the grin tugging wide across Parker’s face betraying her at once. The girl could not sell weariness if her life depended on it. It made Madeline’s lips curve, slow and knowing, as if she found the effort endearing rather than foolish. “Careful now.” She teased softly, eyes gleaming with a hint of mischief. “If you grin like that in the middle of a round, people will start thinking you actually enjoy being handled~.”

Her hand traced Parker’s forearm with the lightest insistence, fingers curling just enough to guide the angle without snatching control. The pace was deliberate, gentle pressure met with pliant withdrawal. When Parker rolled her shoulder out and tucked the arm in, Madeline let it pass with a murmur that was half-instruction, half-praise. “Mmm, that’s better. You’re not vanishing; you’re directing. That is the difference between being slippery and being clever. One is a trick, the other is a tool…though you’d best be careful where you lead me, darling. I do tend to follow.”

As Parker gave ground beneath her push, Madeline stepped with her, keeping the contact alive with subtle shifts of weight. Each shuffle was answered with her own, her presence pressing close without ever suffocating. “Yes.” The Englishwoman said, tone low and approving, “Balance. Hips steady, shoulders calm. Yielding isn’t surrender; it’s an invitation. The trick is always making them believe it was their idea.” The words were instructional, but the sly tilt of her brow suggested she knew precisely how double-edged they sounded.

The rhythm began to take on a pulse, ties and breaks weaving together with a slow, unhurried intimacy. Madeline let Parker’s collar tie settle for a breath longer than necessary, her own palm brushing across the line of the rookie’s tricep before slipping away again. “You’ve an ear for this.” she murmured, lips curving in a smile just shy of wicked. “Most stumble through the count. You… listen. Very important. And attractive.”

Their foreheads nearly brushed, the closeness thickening the air. Madeline’s expression softened, her breath steady despite the constant shifting. At the rookie’s earnest question, she let the silence linger for a beat before letting amusement colour her reply. “Your pacing? Lovely. Not too quick, not too timid. You have not bolted, nor have you stalled. That is rarer than you think.” She gave Parker’s shoulder the lightest nudge with her elbow, guiding her posture while her eyes glinted with playful challenge. “But mind your shoulder line. Leave it open, and I’ll slip right through you before you know it.”

Her lips curved further as she leaned just close enough for her words to be felt as much as heard. “You’re doing far better than you give yourself credit for. Keep the rhythm… and if you’re clever, you’ll keep me entertained.”

[Parker]

"Let them think what they want." Parker didn't let her expression go, not even for a moment. Her sneakers squeaked faintly against the mat as they circled in tight steps, testing technique and timing. At first, she had been all awkward blushes, caught off guard by the veteran’s teasing little asides, but once they’d locked up, the rest of the world bled out in the weight of their exchange. The warmth of the older woman’s body, the little purrs and murmurs brushing against her ear… Parker registered them, but only distantly, like noise on the edge of focus. Her instincts had taken over, the repetition of a thousand amateur drills kicking in.

"I can lead. I don't mind being chased." For a moment, it was all technique: the snug fit of their tie-up and light holds, the grind of tempered strength and precision to execute, Parker’s own grassroots upbringing bracing against Madeline’s practiced ease.

She liked to think of herself as mindful, staying compact, not offering up much in the way of leverage, but she couldn’t see her own weaknesses the way her opponent could. Drills trained the body into habits, sure, but habits weren’t the same as insight. If something was off in her stance, she didn’t want to be told; she wanted to feel it, absorb it, and adapt.

So when Madeline issued a teasing challenge, Parker acknowledged it with a curt nod. Unlike their earlier exchanges, where she shifted under the other woman’s coaching, she did not move to fix whatever opening the other brunette had seen.

“Show me.” Simple and earnest. She hadn’t asked, but accepted. If there was a gap in her structure, she wanted to know exactly how it could be punished. Learn by doing. Grow by failing. Adapt and overcome. Those were lessons ingrained into her since day one on the mats, and she wasn’t likely to abandon them now, given a chance to be better than when she started drilling today.

[Lightman]

Madeline’s smile lingered at Parker’s retort, the rookie’s refusal to let her grin falter carrying more weight than bravado. It was a stubbornness she recognised, the sort of spirit that made one worth testing. Their circling steps whispered across the mat, each shift of sneaker and squeeze of grip layering rhythm into their dance. The warmth of contact between them was more than physical; it was a pulse, a steady reminder of the resolve beneath Parker’s nervous charm.

“Leading is admirable.” Madeline muttered, her voice low and smooth as her grip adjusted with careful pressure. “But a good pursuit is far trickier than you think. The hunter’s eyes are always sharper than the prey’s. You’d best decide which one you are before someone makes the choice for you.” The words held a teasing lilt, but her gaze was assessing, weighty, as if already drawing lines through Parker’s defences.

Madeline felt the subtle tells as plainly as if they were written across Parker’s brow, even though the younger woman’s compact frame braced well, neat and controlled. A foot angled a touch too flat, a hip turned half a second late. Nothing glaring, nothing that screamed novice, but minor flaws were where the cleverest opponents carved their victories. Parker’s stubborn refusal to adjust only curved Madeline’s lips further, a faint smirk tugging at the corner.

“So bold.” Madeline breathed, almost amused. “It’s typical for most to be sensitive when I point out a weakness. And here you are wanting to be punished for it.” A quiet chuckle followed, and then she shifted, stepping in close, the slide of her palm along Parker’s tricep almost indulgent before her weight bore through with sudden precision. She dipped her shoulder low, guiding Parker’s balance forward with a twist of her wrist and a sharp tug, testing if the rookie could feel the hole in her stance as gravity answered.

Madeline’s voice was a purr at her ear as she leaned in, never quite breaking the tie even as she threatened to unravel it. “There. Do you feel it? One slip, one inch given, and I am already inside your line. That is the danger of pretending the door is locked when the latch is wide open.” She held the pressure only long enough to make the point, then softened her grip, letting Parker stabilise again.

“Now then.” The English Rose said with a glint of challenge in her eyes, “I’ll thank you kindly for allowing me entrance…unless you learn how to bar me out properly.”