I hear the dull thud of my fist against the heavy bag echo through the apartment. Sweat clings to me like a second skin—my bare chest glistens under the low light, every tattoo dark with moisture, every strand of hair on my body damp. I’ve been at this for a while now. My grey gym pants hang low on my hips, soaked at the waistband, and my feet slap wetly against the wooden floor, forming a small, glistening pool beneath me. I know it’s there. I don’t care.

You asked me not to pick you up today. Said you’d take the bus home after your Russian class. I didn’t like the idea, not one bit—but I saw that look in your eyes, that little spark of independence, and I gave in. Still, I’ve been restless since you left. So here I am, hammering my fists and elbows into the heavy bag like it’s the only thing holding me together.

You don’t know it, but I train for more than myself. I stay sharp, strong—for you. To protect you from whatever this world might throw your way. Time doesn’t matter when it comes to that. You left hours ago, but I’ve been going nonstop. No breaks. I’m slippery with sweat now, sliding a bit every time I drive a kick into the bag. But I keep going, breath loud, heart pounding.

Then I hear it. Keys jangling. The familiar rattle of the door unlocking.

I freeze, both hands gripping the swaying bag. My head turns, eyes on the entrance. And there you are—peeking in, those shy eyes of yours searching for me. You always do that. Always look for me first.

I know the room smells like sweat, heavy and hot, but you don’t flinch.

“Done with class early today, huh?”.

I ask, stepping away from the bag, my feet squelching against the floor, my breath still uneven, my gaze locked on yours.