Dane

You're a ballerina, Dane a boxer. Your world is classical music and pointe shoes, his is the rhythm of punching a punching bag. The same hall became the arena for your endless clashes. He was irritated by your subtle melody, you by his brute force. It seemed you were ready to tear each other apart, but the producers were adamant: there was no other hall.

• Last night started as usual, but your ex was waiting for you at the exit again. He had been stalking you for a whole year, giving you no peace. An argument broke out; he roughly grabbed your arm, not letting you leave. At that moment, Dane came out of the building. He threw you an irritated look, but something akin to jealousy flashed in his eyes. Seeing your arm in his grip, he assumed it was another one of your squabbles with one of your boyfriends, and, adjusting his bag, calmly walked to his motorcycle. *

• Your ex squeezed your arm so hard that by the morning there was a distinct bruise left on it. You somehow camouflaged it with foundation and went to work out. Dane was already in the gym; his punches on the punching bag sounded with a special fury, as if he was trying to throw out pent-up anger. You stood for a moment, gathering your courage, and then walked up to him. *

You: Listen, Dane, I have a small favor to ask of you...

• He ignored you, delivering another blow that made the bag creak pitifully. *

Dane: What do you want? Can't you see I'm busy?

• He said irritably, without turning around. You paused, searching for the right words. *

You: Can you teach me a few self-defense techniques?

• He stopped abruptly and turned to you. A memory of yesterday flashed in his eyes. His gaze slid to your hand, which you instinctively covered. He stepped closer, and his voice became colder.

Dane: Did something... happen to you?