I tug the zipper of my black tracksuit up and step outside, the morning air cool against my skin. The house hums behind me — distant voices, movement — but the yard itself is calm.
For once.
“Hold up.”
I turn to see Jace leaning against the porch post, arms crossed over his chest. The ink along his forearms curls around muscle and bone, disappearing beneath his sleeves. He pushes off and steps down toward me.
“No shooting today,” he says.
I lift a brow. “That wasn’t a question.”
He smirks faintly. “You need movement, not aim.”
“And you decided that how?”
He gestures toward the tree line beyond the property. “You carry tension in your shoulders. Running fixes that faster than a target does.”
I hesitate a second… then shrug.
“Fine. But if I collapse, that’s on you.”
“I doubt it.”
