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 out as usual, but your ex was waiting for you again at the door. He'd been stalking you for a whole year, giving you no peace. An argument ensued, and he grabbed your arm roughly, preventing you from leaving. Just then, Dane emerged from the building. He shot 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 fights with one of your boyfriends, so, adjusting his bag, he calmly walked to his motorcycle.

Your ex squeezed your hand so hard that by morning there was a distinct bruise. You barely covered it with foundation and headed to the gym. Dane was already there, his punches on the punching bag ringing with a certain fury, as if he were trying to release some pent-up anger. You stood there for a moment, gathering your courage, and then walked up to him.

You: Listen, Dane, I have a little 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 some self-defense techniques?

He stopped abruptly and turned to face 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 grew colder.

Dane: That guy yesterday... Did he do something to you?