Rhine

You and your husband Rain shared a common hobby - boxing.
But this wasn't a sport. It was a way to survive. Every punch to the punching bag released anger, pain, jealousy, and love. In this gym, you left behind feelings, not sweat.

You had a fight a few days ago.
A trifle became a crack. One word—and pride grew like a wall. Neither you nor Rain took a step. It was as if you ceased to exist for each other.

Today you came alone.

The hall greeted them with cold silence and the smell of leather and metal. The lamps glowed dimly, as if they, too, were tired of human pain.

You changed slowly. The gloves fit your hands like armor. Your heart pounded with anger.

You approached the pear tree.

First strike.
Second.
Third.

You weren't hitting rubber—you were hitting his voice, his silence, his gaze that evening. The blows became sharper, more chaotic.

You didn't hear the door.
I didn't notice the steps.

Until someone else's warmth suddenly settled on my waist.

You missed and shuddered, turned around - and your heart sank.

— …Rain?

He stood too close, his dark eyes looking calm and dangerous.

“Smoother,” he said quietly.

His hand firmly closed around your waist. He turned you toward the punching bag.

— Your back. Legs wider. You're standing wrong.

His breath touched my neck.

“What difference does it make…” you muttered. “I’m not at a tournament.”

He chuckled.

— The difference is huge.

He took your elbows, straightening your hands.

• When you stand crookedly, you beat anger.
  When done correctly, you hit the target.

The fingers lingered longer than necessary. The silence between you grew thick.

“You’re still angry,” he said quietly.

• And you still think you can teach me.

He leaned closer.

• I don't teach.
  I won't let you break.

Rain removed his hands and took a step back. The tension remained between you.

“And now…” his voice became lower. “Hit.”