Everyone Starts Somewhere
Aaliyah
The morning sunlight poured into the room, illuminating the soft textures of the Salzburg hotel suite. Aaliyah blinked against the light, stretching as the ache in her muscles reminded her of the chaos of the past few days. She sat up slowly, the faint sound of movement drawing her attention.
Cruz was already awake—of course—and stationed at the small table by the window. Her hands worked methodically over a small knife, cleaning it with the focus of someone who never allowed their guard to drop. Aaliyah watched her in silence for a moment, noting the sharp angles of her face in the sunlight, the way her dark eyes tracked every detail of her task.
“Do you ever sleep?” Aaliyah finally asked, her voice still rough from sleep.
Cruz glanced up briefly, her lips twitching into the faintest semblance of a smile. “Enough.”
Aaliyah sighed, swinging her legs off the bed. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the answer you’re getting,” Cruz replied, returning to her task. Her tone was as clipped as ever, but Aaliyah noticed the faint lines of exhaustion etched into her face. Cruz might be composed, but she was far from rested.
--
After a quick breakfast of pastries and coffee—Cruz had insisted on keeping things simple—they found themselves in the quiet of the suite again. Aaliyah paced the room, her mind racing with thoughts she couldn’t quite organize. Every glance out the window felt like an invitation for danger, and the stillness only made it worse.
“You’re restless,” Cruz said, breaking the silence.
“No kidding,” Aaliyah muttered, folding her arms. “I’m not built for this… sitting around, waiting for something bad to happen.”
Cruz leaned back in her chair, studying her with a calm, calculating gaze. “It’s better than the alternative.”
“Not for me,” Aaliyah shot back, her voice sharper than she intended. She turned to face Cruz, her frustration bubbling over. “You’re prepared for all of this. You have your training, your plans. And me? I’m just sitting here like a walking liability, waiting for you to swoop in and save me.”
Cruz’s expression didn’t change, but her gaze narrowed slightly, her head tilting as if assessing her. Finally, she stood, crossing the room with deliberate steps. She reached into her belt and pulled out a small knife, holding it out to Aaliyah.
“What’s this?” Aaliyah asked, staring at the weapon like it might bite her.
“It’s time you stopped waiting for someone else to save you,” Cruz said evenly. “Let me teach you.”
Cruz’s version of training was meticulous, exacting, and entirely without frills. She started with the basics, showing Aaliyah how to hold the knife properly, how to keep her grip firm but not rigid. “You’re holding it like it’s going to run away,” Cruz said, stepping closer to adjust Aaliyah’s hand. “Relax your grip. You need control, not a death grip.”
Aaliyah tried to focus on Cruz’s words, but the warmth of Cruz’s hand as it brushed hers sent an unexpected shiver up her spine. “Okay, control,” she muttered, her cheeks flushing as she readjusted her grip.
“Good,” Cruz said, stepping back. Her gaze stayed on Aaliyah, sharp and assessing. “Now, if someone comes at you, what do you do?”
“Panic?” Aaliyah offered, half-joking.
Cruz’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “Not helpful. You block, then counter. Here.”
Cruz moved behind her, guiding her arms through the motion. Aaliyah could feel the tension in Cruz’s body, the way her strength was carefully controlled, like a coiled spring. It was both reassuring and intimidating.
“Again,” Cruz said, her voice steady.
They moved on to defensive techniques—how to block an attack, how to use an opponent’s momentum against them. Aaliyah struggled, her movements hesitant and clumsy, but Cruz never raised her voice or showed any frustration.
“Stop thinking so much,” Cruz said after Aaliyah botched a block for the third time in a row. “You’re trying to plan every move like it’s a chess game.”
“Because I don’t want to mess it up,” Aaliyah said, panting slightly.
“That’s exactly how you mess it up,” Cruz replied, crossing her arms. “This isn’t about perfection. It’s about instinct.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” Aaliyah shot back. “You’re not the one fumbling around with a knife for the first time.”
Cruz raised an eyebrow, her expression softening slightly. “You think I came out of the womb knowing how to do this? I fumbled too. A lot.”
Aaliyah blinked, caught off guard by the admission. “Really?”
“Really,” Cruz said, her tone quieter now. “Everyone starts somewhere. The only difference is whether or not you keep going.”
By the end of the session, Aaliyah was drenched in sweat, her arms trembling from exertion. She dropped onto the bed with a groan, staring at the ceiling. “That was… intense.”
“You did well,” Cruz said, already cleaning the knife Aaliyah had been using. Her movements were slow and deliberate, her focus unwavering. “You’ll get better.”
Aaliyah sat up, her breath still coming in shallow bursts. “Do you really think I’ll need to use this?”
Cruz paused, her hands stilling for a brief moment before she met Aaliyah’s gaze. “I hope not,” she said softly. “But if you do, I want you to be ready.”
Something in her voice made Aaliyah’s chest tighten. She hesitated before saying, “Thanks. For teaching me.”
Cruz’s eyes lingered on hers for a beat too long, something unspoken passing between them. Then she nodded, her expression softening just slightly. “Don’t mention it.”
Cruz
The sunlight spilling into the suite didn’t do much to soften the tightness in Cruz’s chest. It was too quiet, too still. The kind of quiet that made her instincts prickle, that reminded her nothing about this situation was safe. She sat at the small table, her knife glinting as she ran it through a sharpening stone, the rhythmic sound grounding her.
Across the room, Aaliyah stirred, shifting in the bed like she didn’t have a care in the world. Cruz glanced up briefly, watching as Aaliyah stretched, her hair tumbling in soft waves over her shoulders. Good thing you’re not the one on watch, Cruz thought dryly, forcing her gaze back to her knife.
“Do you ever sleep?” Aaliyah’s voice cut through the silence, thick with sleep but laced with curiosity.
Cruz didn’t look up. “Enough,” she said, keeping her tone flat.
“Right,” Aaliyah muttered, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. “That’s not an answer.”
Cruz bit back a smirk. It’s enough of an answer, she thought. Sleep was a luxury she couldn’t afford, not when Aaliyah’s safety was on the line. Instead, she kept her hands busy, focusing on the steady scrape of steel on stone, though she couldn’t shake the feeling of Aaliyah’s gaze lingering on her.
--
By the time they’d finished the pastries she’d grabbed earlier, Cruz noticed Aaliyah pacing, her steps erratic and agitated. She could practically feel the frustration radiating off her in waves, and it was starting to grate.
But then came Aaliyah’s voice, cutting through the quiet like a blade. “No kidding,” she muttered, her tone sharp. “I’m not built for this… sitting around, waiting for something bad to happen.”
Cruz set the knife down gently and leaned back in her chair, finally letting her gaze settle on Aaliyah. She crossed her arms, tilting her head slightly as she studied her. “It’s better than the alternative.”
The response was calm, neutral—practical, even. But Cruz could see it wasn’t the answer Aaliyah wanted. She saw the frustration simmering behind those green eyes, the way her hands tightened into fists at her sides.
“Not for me,” Aaliyah snapped, her voice rising. She spun to face Cruz, her frustration spilling over in sharp, angry words. “You’re prepared for all of this. You have your training, your plans. And me? I’m just sitting here like a walking liability, waiting for you to swoop in and save me.”
The words hung in the air, heavier than Cruz expected. She kept her expression neutral, but the sting of them settled in her chest like a weight. Liability? Cruz’s eyes narrowed slightly as she tilted her head, her gaze sharp and assessing. Aaliyah wasn’t wrong—she wasn’t trained, wasn’t ready. But liability? That wasn’t the word Cruz would have used.
Cruz let the silence linger, letting Aaliyah’s words echo between them. Finally, she stood, her movements slow and deliberate. She could feel Aaliyah’s eyes on her, the tension crackling between them as she crossed the room.
When she stopped in front of Aaliyah, she reached into her belt and pulled out a small knife, the handle gleaming faintly in the morning light. She held it out to her, her grip steady.
If Aaliyah wanted to stop feeling like a liability, this was where it would start. Cruz’s gaze didn’t waver, her voice low and steady as she said, “Alright. Let’s do something about it.”
Teaching Aaliyah to hold the knife was an exercise in patience. Cruz had forgotten how awkward first-timers could be, how much hesitation could get in the way of instinct. She stood close, adjusting Aaliyah’s grip with careful precision.
“Too tight,” Cruz said, nudging Aaliyah’s fingers into the correct position. “You’re holding it like it’s going to run away.”
“I’m trying,” Aaliyah muttered, her cheeks flushed as Cruz’s hand brushed hers.
Cruz smirked faintly. “Relax your grip. You need control, not a death grip.”
She stepped back, giving Aaliyah space to adjust. The sight of Aaliyah gripping the knife with such determination was… something. Endearing, maybe. But Cruz shoved that thought aside quickly. Focus, Manuelos. This isn’t cute. This is survival.
Cruz watched as Aaliyah adjusted her grip for what felt like the fifth time, her movements uncertain, her brow furrowed in concentration. The knife looked awkward in her hands, like a foreign object she didn’t trust yet. Cruz stepped closer, reaching out to guide her fingers over the hilt. Her hand brushed against Aaliyah’s, and she felt the faintest tremor.
Did she just… shiver? Cruz glanced at her face, catching the quick flush of red blooming across her cheeks. The corner of Cruz’s mouth twitched, though she kept her face neutral.
Aaliyah muttered something about control, her voice flustered, and Cruz had to bite back a grin. She kept her expression sharp and professional, though it was getting harder by the second. There was something about the way Aaliyah’s determination warred with her awkwardness that was… distracting. You’re training her, not flirting.
“Now,” Cruz said, folding her arms and tilting her head. “If someone comes at you, what do you do?”
“Panic?” Aaliyah offered, half-joking but clearly unsure.
Cruz raised an eyebrow, the faintest smirk tugging at her lips. “Not helpful. You block, then counter. Here.” She stepped behind Aaliyah, reaching out to guide her arms through the motion.
The closeness caught Cruz off guard. Aaliyah’s hair smelled faintly of something floral, and her body was warm under Cruz’s touch. She could feel the slight tension in Aaliyah’s shoulders, the way she tried to follow Cruz’s guidance without faltering. Cruz swallowed hard, forcing herself to focus on the task at hand.
“Again,” she said, her voice steady. She stepped back quickly, putting some distance between them before her thoughts wandered further.
As they moved through the basics of defense, Cruz found herself slipping into a rhythm. Block, counter, redirect—it was muscle memory for her, but for Aaliyah, it was all new. The movements were awkward at first, hesitant and clumsy, but Aaliyah didn’t give up. Cruz couldn’t help but admire that. Even as Aaliyah fumbled, her determination was undeniable.
Still, Cruz’s patience was tested when Aaliyah overthought every single motion. After the third failed block in a row, Cruz crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow. “Stop thinking so much. You’re trying to plan every move like it’s a chess game.”
“Because I don’t want to mess it up!” Aaliyah shot back, panting slightly, her frustration bubbling to the surface.
“That’s exactly how you mess it up,” Cruz replied, her tone calm but firm. “This isn’t about perfection. It’s about instinct.”
Aaliyah glared at her, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. “That’s easy for you to say. You’re not the one fumbling around with a knife for the first time.”
Cruz’s lips twitched into a faint smile at her defiance. “You think I came out of the womb knowing how to do this?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “I fumbled too. A lot.”
The admission hung between them, surprising even Cruz. She didn’t talk about her early days often—the long nights spent learning to fight, to survive—but something about Aaliyah’s wide, disbelieving eyes made her want to share just a little more.
“Really?” Aaliyah asked, blinking at her, clearly caught off guard.
“Really,” Cruz said, her tone softer now. She let her gaze linger on Aaliyah for a moment, watching as her frustration gave way to curiosity. “Everyone starts somewhere. The only difference is whether or not you keep going.”
By the end of the session, Aaliyah was sprawled on the bed, her chest heaving as she caught her breath. Cruz, on the other hand, felt strangely settled. The rhythm of instruction, the focus on something tangible, had eased some of the tension coiled in her chest.
“Do you really think I’ll need this?” Aaliyah asked, her voice quieter now, almost hesitant.
Cruz paused, the knife still in her hands. She didn’t meet Aaliyah’s gaze right away. “I hope not,” she said finally. “But if you do, I want you to be ready.”
The weight of her own words settled heavily over her. The thought of Aaliyah having to fight, of needing to use what Cruz had just taught her, made something in her chest tighten uncomfortably.
“Thanks,” Aaliyah said softly, pulling Cruz out of her thoughts.
Cruz nodded, her expression neutral. “Don’t mention it.”