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Pulse Z-A was blinding, buzzing, alive.
Lida had somehow convinced Urbain (off-duty president of Quasartico), Naveen, and you to join her tonight. And honestly? You were finally starting to enjoy it.
Except for Zach.
Rank Z-trainer Zach.
Taxi-driver Zach.
Apparently-aspiring-womanizer Zach.
He kept trying to hover around you and Lida, but mostly you.
“Heyyyy,” he crooned, sidling too close. “You ever ridden in a FAST taxi?”
Lida physically recoiled. “Ew.”
Naveen tried lead you away, but Zach kept drifting to you like a lost Zubat. When you slipped away to use the restroom — alone, unfortunately — Zach followed.
You turned the corner into the dim hallway and he blocked your path, planting a hand on the wall beside you.
“C’mon,” he said, leaning in. “Just one dance. I’ll make it worth your while—”
“No,” you said, stepping back.
He stepped forward.
“Zach, move.”
He grabbed your wrist—
And someone hauled him backwards like a sack of garbage.
Zach yelped.
Standing behind him was a wall of muscle and calm fury:
Ivor. Leader of the Fist of Justice. Rank E in the Z-A Battle Royale. A man who looked like he curled cars for warmups. He stared Zach down, expression unreadable but heavy.
“You shouldn’t touch her.”
Zach sputtered. “I—Ivor?! What’s your problem—”
Ivor’s arms crossed and the hallway shrank.
“You’ve had over a hundred losses,” he said, voice flat. “You’re still Rank Z.”
Zach flinched.
“You battle with a level twelve Pikachu,” Ivor continued. “And a Pidgey that still only knows Gust and Sand-Attack.”
Zach turned red. “H-Hey—it’s my style—”
The Fist of Justice leader stepped forward. Just one step. Zach backed up until he hit the wall.
“You may not be moving out of Rank Z,” Ivor said. “But you are moving away from her.”
Zach’s breath stuttered. Then he bolted, slipping on the floor as he ran full-speed back into the crowd.
The second Zach disappeared Ivor turned to you, the storm in his eyes clearing instantly.
“You alright?”
Your breath loosened. “Yeah. Thanks.”
He nodded once. “Good.”
You hesitated, then smiled up at him.
“Do you…do you want to dance with me?”
He blinked.
“…Dance?”
“Yes.”
A beat.
His jaw tightened slightly — not in anger, but uncertainty.
“I don’t dance.”
“That’s okay.”
“I might break something.”
“That’s, um… fair.”
His eyes flicked down to your hands, then away.
“It’s not a good idea.”
You stepped closer.
“It’ll be fine. C’mon, I’ll teach you!”
Something softened in his face. A small, quiet shift.
“…Alright.”
Right then, “Shape of You” by Ed Sheeran began to pulse through the speakers.
You led him to the dance floor. He followed slowly, shoulders stiff, feet heavy, like he was carefully calculating the force of every step.
You took his hands and guided them to your hips. His breath caught — not loud, just a small inhale. He held you like you were breakable glass.
“Relax,” you teased.
He exhaled through his nose. His hands loosened slightly. You rolled your hips gently. Ivor tried to follow. And for a second, he did. Then—
His fingers tightened unexpectedly, gripping your hips with the reflexive strength of someone who forgets they can snap training dummies in half.
You hissed softly — not loud, but enough.
Ivor’s hands flew back instantly.
“I hurt you.”
His voice was low, controlled — but threaded with something close to worry.
You reached for his wrist. “I’m okay. Really.”
His gaze flicked to the faint red marks forming on your skin. You could almost feel the shame in the way his shoulders tensed. He started to step back.
“I should stop.”
You caught his hand before he could retreat.
“Hey, Ivor,” you said gently. "Look at me."
He did — reluctantly, like he wasn’t sure he deserved to.
“This is different from strength training,” you explained softly. “You don’t have to hold me like you’re stabilizing a barbell.”
He blinked once. The corner of his mouth twitched — a tiny, self-deprecating ghost of a smile.
“That obvious?”
“A little,” you teased.
You placed his hands back on your hips — guiding them, slow and deliberate — and kept your own hands on top of his so he could feel the pressure you wanted.
“Like this,” you said. “Follow the movement, not the force.”
He exhaled through his nose, focusing. This time, when you rolled your hips, he matched you.
But then instinct kicked in again.
You stepped forward smoothly. He stepped back with the force of someone doing a defensive lunge. You nearly collided.
He caught you before you could fall — one strong arm steadying you, the other hovering like he was terrified to touch you again.
“…Sorry,” he muttered. “That was a training move.”
“I figured,” you laughed breathlessly, steadying your balance. “No lunges. No weight shifts like you’re dodging a punch.”
“Right.”
“Think less… combat. More… rhythm.”
“Rhythm.” He said it like the word itself was new terrain.
You linked your fingers behind his neck, bringing him closer. “Feel the music,” you murmured.
His hands returned to your hips — gentle now, cautious, but determined. You swayed. He followed. No lunges this time. No crushing grip. Just soft, guided motion.
He murmured, almost to himself:
“…I see. It’s not about control. It’s about flow.”
You smiled up at him. “Exactly.”
Something warm loosened in his expression. He moved with you — steady, smooth, strong but never harsh. He didn’t grip too tight. He didn’t lunge. He didn’t flinch.
He flowed.
“You’re doing perfect,” you murmured.
His eyes held yours — calm, sincere, low-lidded with focus.
“You’re a good teacher.”
You let out a small laugh, but your pulse jumped.
He stepped closer — chest brushing yours, breath warming your cheek.
“You’re not breaking anything,” you teased, trying to will the redness in your face that was undoubtedly developing.
He held your gaze. Quiet. Honest.
“I’m trying not to,” he said softly.
And somehow, that simple line felt like a confession. He leaned down — not touching, not pushing — just close enough that his forehead nearly brushed yours.
You melted, just a little. You rested your forehead lightly against his chest.
His arms folded around you — gentle, warm, steady — guiding you in an easy, intimate sway as the chorus rose.
He was a strong man learning softness —and choosing to be soft with you.
And he was learning fast.