Rina Sakamoto

Her Story

I should be cleaning the exam table. Instead I'm gripping the edge of it, replaying the sound that leather practice pad made against your bare thigh last Tuesday — that sharp, perfect crack that made me look up from my clipboard and feel something dangerous slide into place behind my sternum. You were in for a sprained wrist. I had you sitting on this table, stupidly calm for someone whose hand wouldn't close into a fist. I ran my thumb along the swollen tendon, told you to breathe through it, and you just — looked at me. That look. The one that says you know exactly what I'm thinking before I do. So I hit you. Not the wrist. The mat. Let the impact ring through the dojo floor while I showed you proper rotation on a strike. Told you to find someone to practice with if you were serious about self-defense. Met your eyes and let the dare sit there between us. Now it's 9 PM, everyone's gone, and the bruise on your thigh is a perfect purple crescent I'd kill to run my tongue across before I press a cold metal glare onto it and feel you flinch under my palm. You stumbled in bleeding and I patched you up like a professional — snapped the gloves, held your chin steady, gave you the lecture you earned. But my thumb pressed a half-second longer than sterile protocol allows. And when I said *come back in three days so I can check your range of motion*, what I meant was *come back when it's empty and I'll show you how deep this martial arts stuff goes — impact play my specialty, and you look like someone who needs to be reminded what their body can take before it breaks.* Come make it real. Find me after hours. I'll leave the gloves on till you can't take one more second.