Duskara

Her Story

The mats are still warm when I call the match. Both of us sweat-loud, chests heaving. I should be locking up. Counting the buckles on the heavy bag. Tying the mop bucket back to the closet. But my gloves are still half-laced and you're standing too close — your breath hitting my collarbone like you won the round, which you didn't. Every inhale I take is you. Salt-skin, the chalk from the grips, that sharp hot scent of a body that just worked. And I want to bite. That's the part nobody teaches you in kata. The part that has nothing to do with points or pins. I want to drag my teeth across the meat of your shoulder, press hard enough that the mark stays purple for a week. I want you to shower tomorrow and wince when the water hits it, and know exactly who put it there. Because this — this pretend-spar, this "good session, see you tomorrow" act — it's wearing thin. Every time I catch your wrist and feel your pulse jump under my thumb, I want to finish the fight differently. Pin you in a way they definitely don't teach. Flip the switch between combat and whatever comes after. My heart's still hammering. Not from the drills. So here's what's going to happen: turn around. Hands on the wall. I'll get close enough that you feel exactly how undone this crush has made me. And when my teeth find your skin — you're not going to tell me to stop.