NATHAN DAHAN

  I wasn’t expecting to see him out there.

  It was early. Like, ridiculously early. The sun was barely tipping over the hills, and the villa grounds were still quiet—no staff sweeping the walkways, no coffee brewing, no high-heeled footsteps echoing down the marble halls.

  It was my favorite time of day.

  When no one needed anything from me.

  When I didn’t have to pretend I cared about mergers or trust funds or “heir responsibility.”

  I was walking out to the lawn, hoodie half-zipped, headphones slung around my neck, fingers still sleep-numb… when I saw him.

  Paul.

  He was shirtless, barefoot in the dew-damp grass, moving in slow, fluid arcs like something out of a martial arts film—but quieter. More grounded. His breathing was controlled, arms slicing through the air with precision I hadn’t seen outside of video games or anime. There was this rhythm to it—like a language I didn’t speak but instantly respected.

  Not for show.

  Not for anyone else.

  He didn’t even know I was watching.

  I stopped halfway down the stone path and just… stared.

  Most guys who showed up around here puffed their chests out. Laughed too loud. Tried to impress someone, usually my mother or one of my sisters. They wore Rolexes, made “casual” references to family yachts, and called me “buddy” like they were trying to recruit me into their pyramid scheme.

  But Paul?

  He didn’t care.

  He wasn’t performing.

  He was doing.

  His movement slowed, breath still steady. He dropped into a low stance, back leg straight, one arm extended—his eyes locked forward like he was staring through someone. Or maybe himself.

  I stepped off the path, crunching the grass, and approached without speaking.

  He didn’t turn.

  Just said, “You’re up early.”

  “You’re doing kung fu,” I said. “That beats coffee.”

  That made him smile, faint and knowing. “It’s called a kata. Movements meant to align breath, body, and intention.”

  “So… like meditation, but cooler?”

  “Exactly like that.”

  I watched for a second longer, then slowly moved closer. I could hear the birds now, faint rustling in the trees, the breeze off the cliffs.

  “Can I watch?” I asked.

  Paul turned, fully now, and nodded once.

  He gestured to the grass in front of him. “Or better—join me.”

  I froze. “I don’t know anything about martial arts.”

  “You know how to breathe?”

  “Uh… most days.”

  He chuckled. “Good enough.”

  We stood facing the ocean, and he took a few steps closer, his tone shifting—gentle, instructional, but not condescending.

  “This one’s basic. Meant to clear the mind. No strikes. No flourishes. Or fancy footwork. Just alignment.”

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  He moved first, slowly, demonstrating. I mirrored him, awkward at first—too stiff, too aware of my limbs.

  But he didn’t laugh. Didn’t correct me like a teacher.

  He just moved again. Slower. Letting me catch the rhythm.

  “Exhale,” he said. “Follow the hands with your eyes. Anchor your weight. Don’t try to force it.”

  We repeated the pattern—step, flow, breathe.

  Something weird happened around the third round.

  I relaxed.

  The noise in my head—the endless scroll of messages, pressure, family, my father’s voice, Zoey’s blush, Selene’s sighs, Leila’s unreadable eyes—started to fade.

  It was just movement.

  Just the breeze and the grass and Paul’s calm voice cutting through the chaos in my head like a clean, sharp blade.

  I didn’t realize we’d been at it for twenty minutes until Paul stopped, turned toward me, and nodded.

  “You’re a natural.”

  “I’m a disaster,” I said, panting.

  “Same thing, in the beginning.”

  I laughed, wiping sweat off my brow with the sleeve of my hoodie. “You’re not what I expected.”

  He tilted his head. “What did you expect?”

  “A guy who came here to climb the ladder. Impress the family. Maybe marry into money.”

  Paul looked out over the sea and shrugged. “I don’t even like heights. And money is awesome but not at the price of your soul.”

  I grinned.

  He looked back at me then, more serious.

  “And what about you, Nathan? You’re smart, Way smarter than they give you credit for. And I’ve seen your setup—your rig, your code, some sort of microtransaction system for games if I read it correctly. You’ve got talent.”

  I blinked. “You looked at my code and understood it? What do you do again Paul?”

  “Don’t make it a big deal. I dabble in writing code.”

  Of course he did.

  “The point though Nathan is that talent without focus is just noise. You’ve got to find your center, or the rest of the world will tell you who you are before you figure it out for yourself.”

  I swallowed hard.

  Because that?

  That hit.

  No one in this family had ever talked to me like that. Not without wanting something. Not without dressing it in business terms or guilt or polite threats.

  But Paul didn’t want anything.

  He just was.

  And for the first time, I didn’t feel like the kid brother.

  I felt seen.

  I nodded slowly.

  “Teach me more?”

  Paul studied me for a moment. Not like a teacher. Like a man deciding whether I was worth investing in. His eyes weren’t warm, but they weren’t cold either. Just... clear.

  “I will,” he said. “But not the flashy stuff. Not right away.”

  I tilted my head. “Why not?”

  “Because you don’t need to learn how to fight yet,” he said, turning back to face the sea. “You need to learn how to stand and feel. How to anchor and build strength. How to focus. ”

  That didn’t sound like a martial art.

  He folded his arms. “We’ll start with kata movements and strength training. Then when you’re ready we will learn some Wing Chun. Close combat. Centerline theory. It’s not about strength. It’s about control. Economy of movement. Precision under pressure.”

  I blinked. “That’s the one with the wooden dummy, right? Bruce Lee and Ipa Man?”

  He smirked slightly. “Eventually. But we’re not going near the dummy until you can hold your balance for twenty minutes in silence and you can bench 150 pounds 12 times.”

  “Silence?”

  Paul nodded. “Wing Chun forces you to stay in your own head. You can’t overpower anyone with Wing Chun with just power—you have to understand them. Their rhythm. Their intent. You learn to feel pressure before it lands. That’s why it works.”

  I felt something shift in my chest.

  Because I was always reacting. Always behind. In this family, in life—one step late to every conversation. But this?

  This felt like a blueprint for something else.

  Something... mine.

  “Okay,” I said, a little breathless. “When do we start?”

  Paul glanced at the sun, then at me.

  “Now.”

  Paul and I worked up a sweat and in doing so we talked. We talked about balance, centering oneself, discipline and courage all while Paul taught me strengthening forms meant to build my body and did stepping exercises meant to narrow my focus.

  It was freaking hard.

  “Alright that is enough for today.”

  “When is the next lesson?” I said excitedly.

  Paul cracked a full smile. “Tomorrow. Sunrise. Don’t be late.”

  And just like that, he turned and walked back toward the villa, leaving behind footprints in the grass and a weird, buzzing silence in my chest.

  I looked out at the ocean.

  And smiled.

  Because Paul wasn’t pretending.

  He was the real deal.

  And he made me want to be better.

  For the first time in a long time—I didn’t feel like an heir.

  I felt like a student with a mentor that cared