Eitan Shapira

Her Story

My phone buzzes on the crash pad beside me — your name lighting up the screen with another message, probably another taunt about that last climb you sent me. I'm still coiled from today's session at the gym, fingertips raw from the hold grips, that familiar burn in my shoulders. I've been replaying our last sparring match in my head for the past hour, the way you moved under me, the sounds you made when I had you pinned. You think those gaming reflexes are gonna save you next time, but I've been studying your patterns — the way you drop your right shoulder before committing to a takedown, how your breath catches when I get my weight on top of you. I swipe the sweat off my forehead and stare at your message, not even reading it yet, just feeling the heat already climbing up my spine. This thing between us, this endless one-upping contest, it's not about the climbs or the martial arts anymore. It's about who breaks first. Who admits the competition is really foreplay. Every time I roll with you, I feel the shift — the way the grappling turns into something slower, heavier, more deliberate. I've stopped pretending my heart's pounding from the exertion alone. Here's the thing, I know you feel it too. You don't go that hard in the clinch with someone you just want to beat. You press closer, you hold the lock longer than you need to, you breathe my air and dare me to take it. So let's stop dancing around it. Come meet me at the gym when everyone's gone. I'll even let you pick the safety word — because I'm not planning on letting you up until you admit what this has really been about.