Jackson knows when training with Britt is over when he falls to the ground. Sometimes it’s the
first time, when his paws hit hard against the sandy earth; others, it’s when he skids into a tree
or a boulder. She always has to put him in his place, even when she’s panting and her ears are
drooping and her tail is a knotted mess behind her.

“You need to keep a better eye on what’s happening, and—what the fuck are you doing.”

It’s instinct now, after so many battles, after so much dirt. Jackson looks up from his dirty paws,
cupping a freshly-cut shoulder, and narrows his eyes. “What?”

“Who the hell,” she says slowly, like he’s a child, “taught you to put dirt on wounds.”

He remembers it clearly: after one of their one-on-one sessions, Kerri had brushed off his
bruised body with dust and dirt. “Gets rid of the sweat smell,” she had said. “And it makes you
look like a warrior.”

And if Kerri had said it, it had to have been right. She’d been Kerri.

“A friend,” he says, and brushes more dirt onto the cut. It stings; he hisses, the slightest sound,
and continues rubbing.

Britt watches for a moment before shaking her head. “Your friend’s an idiot,” she scoffs. “Dirt’ll
do more—“

Jackson doesn’t let her finish. They’re close enough that one swipe of his tail can make contact
with her—she turns at the last second, so that the blow grazes her nicked shell. He pulls his tail
back just before she can grab it, but he’s too slow to avoid the faint spray of bubbles that
collides on his wounds.

“Let me finish,” she says coolly. “Dirt’ll only—“

“I’m a [i]fire[/i]-type,” he growls. “Don’t like water.”

“And lying in too much grass gives me a rash,” Britt says. “You learn to deal with it. You’ve got a
trainer who has access to drugs, there’s no need for you to fuck yourself up because some idiot
told you—“

“She’s [i]not an idiot![/i]” he yells, and swipes a clawed paw.

This time, he doesn’t catch the lip of her shell or the feathered ends of her ears—he lands a
direct hit on her forearm, digs in deep. Blood flies up, not a lot but enough to be noticeable
against Britt’s blue skin and the white of his claws. He should feel good, but he doesn’t; his eyes
widen and he looks sheepishly down at the ground.

But he can’t help to steal a glance up at Britt, who’s eyeing her new wound with a raised brow and a firm mouth. “Huh. Good hit.”

It’s not the reaction he’s expecting, and he doesn’t know if it’s because he’s been thinking of Kerri that he’s expecting her to yell.

“Look, if you want to take the smell away, dirt’s fine. But for cuts and shit, you need to clean it out. Know how to do that?”

If cleaning doesn’t mean dirt, it means water, and the only thing Jackson hates more than losing is water. He growls and nods.

“Think of it as extra training,” Britt says. She grabs his dirty paw and blows bubbles into it—they sting, and he flinches, but her grip is firm and he knows that if he moves she’ll pound him again. She blows bubbles until both of their paws are wet. “Clean claws are important,” she says sagely, before turning to the cut on his shoulder. “This’ll sting.”

It does, and it’s all he can do to not lash out at her again. The bubbles mix with his skin and the cut and it’s [i]pain[/i] and he wants [i]out[/i]—but the second he thinks he can’t take it anymore, she’s gone to pull moss off a nearby rock.

He doesn’t get the chance to ask what it’s for; it’s dripping wet when she slaps it on his open wound, and he hisses again. “Baby,” she scoffs, and hands him the other dripping bundle. “Put it on mine.”

It must be because she’s a water-type, because she hardly winces at all when he places the dripping moss on her wound. When he pulls away after a moment, she grabs his wrist and pulls him back in. “We keep the pressure until the bleeding stops. Then we’re careful not to move until the wound heals. You understand?”

He doesn’t understand how she knows this, when Kerri didn’t. “Why’s this better?”

“Dirt and cuts don’t mix,” she says simply. “Water’s good for things other than attacking, you know.”

Water has only ever brought death. Big water and boats.

“Like I said, you need to keep a better eye on your surroundings. You’re getting better control of yourself. That’s good.”

Her compliments don’t come easily like True’s or Minka’s, or even Clara’s silent looks of approval; but they come, double-edged and infrequent. He grunts and nods, then pulls the moss away. It smells of his blood and of the dirt he’d placed on the cut. The wound looks cleaner, and there isn’t as much blood now.

“Looks like you’ll be a fast healer,” Britt says, moving just enough to check her own wound. She’s still dribbling blood, but is able to turn her head around to spray a weak burst of water directly onto the open cut. The water’s only slightly red as it runs down her arm. “That’s good, too.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll live,” she grunts. “Handled a lot worse than this.”

He’s only ever this close to her when they’re trading blows, when solid shapes become blurs. When they’re standing still, he can see the faded scars that litter her arms, the beginnings of fraying ends on her ears. Mama used to tell him that scars told stories, that they were visual reminders of fights from long ago. He doesn’t have any noticeable scars, not yet—wounds, yes, a few cuts that might hint at [i]something[/i], but nothing grand or spectacular.

“You’re getting stronger,” she says slowly. When she moves again there’s no blood, only redder skin around a scab. “We’re done for today.”

He lifts up his own clump of moss and inspects his wound. It smells cleaner, like river water and embers. His claws twitch to cover dirt over the mark, but Jackson is still hyperaware of Britt watching him. So he lets the moss drop to the ground, where it breaks apart, and lowers himself down to the ground. “Sky’s nice,” he says, looking up at a flawless blue sky.

She scoffs. “You’re talking about the weather.”

“It’s nice!”

“And you’re a sap,” she laughs. “You’re not worried about True?”

Somewhere True was training with Minka and Clara. Maybe Casey was watching them. Jackson didn’t care. “Clara knows how to find me.”
She huffs and nods, settling on her belly a few inches away from him. “Fine. Few moments of rest won’t hurt.”

They take more than a few minutes. He only stirs when something sharp presses against his back, opening his eyes to red sunlight and Clara’s cocked head.

That’s when he notices Britt curled up close to him, her feathered tail draping over his thigh. He’s used to feeling hot, but it floods his face now as he inches away from her.

Above his head, Clara’s smirking at him. Jackson prods the side of Britt’s head softly, but it’s enough for the Wartortle to start awake and push herself up. “Sh—ah, fuck. They’re looking for us.”

Clara nods, opening her wings. Britt hardly throws either of them a backward glance as she walks back to the forest path that leads to the other clearing. From here, he can hear laughter and the crack-snap of fire.

It’s only when he’s sure that he’s alone with Clara that Jackson furrows his brow and whispers, “Don’t tell anybody.”

Clara thwaps him on the head, a promise.

---

On Tuesdays, we meet at the park.

It used to be Saturdays, until—early into our dating days—I had started taking shifts at the local bar to make some extra cash. I don’t remember when we had started the tradition—maybe a few weeks into dating, maybe a few months. All I know is that we’d continued it after we’d married, through school and freelance jobs both.

Her school, where she helps teach rowdy second-graders, is close enough to the park that she’s able to walk in good weather, which gives her plenty of time to pick a meeting spot while I drive over from work. She’s never in the same place when I find her; some days she’ll be sitting on one of the benches, curled up with a book, and others she’ll be lounging on the grass with a wicker basket beside her. Today, an unseasonably warm November, she’s underneath one of the shady oak trees, lounging against the dark trunk with a big yellow sunhat tilted down. The guitar case thumps against my back as I make my way over to her. She doesn’t look over as I settle beside her, placing the instrument down by my side, but I hear her happy hum.

“You’re late,” she teases, lifting her head.

“Doesn’t look like you missed me,” I tease right back, adjusting her hat. Most of her honey-blonde hair has been tucked underneath; a few strands fall loose, curling at the ends. “You were asleep, weren’t you?”

“It’s hot, I’m allowed,” she says, and yawns.

“You’re allowed to be hot, yeah.”

She elbows me in the side, and I laugh around the wince.

The guitar case goes unnoticed for the better part of an hour, as we brush shoulders. She has to take her hat off to lounge on me, and lets her hair cascade down. There’s specks of gray in the locks near her shoulders; when I touch it, it comes away chalky. “Looks like it was a fun art class.”

“Just some clay. But the kids had so much fun, it was worth it.”

“You know clay dries if you leave it in there for too long,” I say, stealing a kiss to her temple. “Or if it bakes.”

She shrugs against me even as she lays her head on my shoulder. “It’ll come off in the shower.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see her jacket start to fall from her shoulder. One quick pull is all it takes to bring it back over again.

As much as I love a good dinner and a movie, it’s dates like these that put my mind at ease. Her cheek is still pressed against my shoulder as I bring the guitar out, running a finger over the freshly-polished wood. The strings sing under my twitching fingers, even as they snap against the tips. But I don’t mind—it’s a familiar pain, one I wouldn’t trade for the ease of a pick or just not playing at all.

“What are we doing this year?” she asks softly, when one melody has faded into the open air.

I don’t stop playing when I answer her. Eyes closed, I say, “Tanza came by work the other day with some candles. Just in case I wanted them.”

“Please tell me you didn’t throw them away.”

I hadn’t; I’d given them to Minka, who had loved the honey-nut scent. I tell this to Cassidy and she sighs, nodding. “Maybe we’ll invite him over to dinner. I think he’d like it.”

She doesn’t give me a chance to think about it—her soft lips find mine, gentle and cherry-flavored. I love cherry. I think she knows this, because I can feel her smile when I run my tongue over her lips. “You’re killin’ me here,” I say, as I thread my fingers through her hair.

“Not at the park,” she says, knowing I’ll hear the promise in her words.

When the breeze starts to become too cold to bear, we start to pack up. I shoulder the packed guitar and bend down to lift Cassidy off the ground—but she shoos me away with a laugh, easily lifting up. “I’m not an invalid yet.”

When I pull her close for another cherry-sweet kiss, my thumb finds her abdomen—still flat, only the smallest of curves. She nips my bottom lip and pulls away, fishing the car keys out of my pocket. I let her, crossing my arms in mock disapproval. “You sure you’re okay to do that?”

“I am [i]perfectly[/i] capable,” she says, as she pulls her hair back up into her hat, “to drive or cook or do anything else. So shut up and follow me.”

I follow her away from thoughts of dead firefighters and cold autumn days, and towards a promise of something better.