That’s the part that can’t let go.
I drive it out with a sharper exhale, pivot faster, make the air whistle. Control is the point.
Control is always the point.
“Mind where your body is, Marin,” Sensei’s voice cuts through my spiral.
“Yes, Sensei.”
I bow, try again. Count each movement—one, two, pivot, breathe. My muscles obey, but my mind won’t.
The night keeps replaying: his hand offering the rag, the way he looked at me.
Concentrate.
I fix my gaze on the far wall, on the grain of wood where the sun hits, until everything narrows down to that line of light. The rhythm settles.
Then the air shifts—something wrong at the edge of my vision.
Movement by the door.
I don’t have to look to know it’s Kieran. My body recognizes him before my brain does, awareness blooming hot under my skin.
My next strike goes wide by half an inch. The first imperfect movement all session.
He leans against the doorframe, hair still damp and curling from practice, shoulders filling the space. Gray hoodie over a fitted T-shirt, his presence heavy enough to pull my focus whether I want it or not. He’s watching me with a kind of intent that makes the back of my neck prickle.
The strange part isn’t that he’s here.
It’s that I’m glad he is.
And I have no idea what to do with that.
Sensei turns, clocking the interruption. “You’re new,” he says. “You wish to join?”
Kieran straightens, clearing his throat. “No. Sorry. I was walking back from practice and saw my friend—” He pauses, glancing at me. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I’ll wait for her here, if that’s okay.”
Friend.
The word lands oddly, off balance.
“You may wait,” Sensei nods, already moving on.
Kieran slips his hands into his pockets, but his eyes never leave me. I feel his attention tracking every movement—the pivot, the strike, the reset. I’m suddenly aware of everything: my form, my breathing, the way my gi shifts with each turn.
When class ends, I bow, grab my towel, and knot it around my neck. My breathing takes longer than it should to settle—the cadence off by a fraction I can’t correct right away.
Not from the drills.
From the fact that he’s still here.
“Morning, Marin.” His grin is crooked, stripped of its usual shine—like he doesn’t have the energy to perform. His voice lands cool, steel blue, steadier than last night in the lab. “Didn’t peg you for the lethal-before-breakfast type.”
“It’s kata. Forms. Not fighting.”
“Looked like fighting to me.”
“It’s discipline,” I correct. “Breath. Repetition until it lives in your muscles.”
