Touch
The air was warm and heavy in that oppressive way that settles a damp sheen on everything it touches. Even in the early hours of the morning, even far beneath the city streets, the late summer air crept unavoidable into every corner and over every surface. She moved with the slow, careful precision gained from years of training, each movement ingrained in her muscles. Her breath chanced across her sweat-glistened arm, sending a shiver through her body.
"Keep your left arm straight," he instructed.
The sudden voice was like a ripple through the quiet of the dojo, spreading across the calm until her focus slipped further away. She tried the move again and knew her effort was unsuccessful when a hiss of air pushed from between his pursed lips.
"Like this," he sighed, taking hold of her arm to guide it into the desired position.
His touch sent a shudder through her body, one that did not abate when he slowly moved his hands apart to rest one atop her wrist and the other at the dip in her elbow. The cool sensation of his skin skirted on the edge of the familiar with the slightest hints of deviation. The fingers were not quite as long and the calluses dotting the skin fell in different places, born from wielding blades instead of a bo. Her chest tightened at the comparison and the sudden push at the back of her eyes caught her by surprise. It often did, even after all this time. Her grief was always waiting just beyond the periphery, clawing into her when she managed a semblance of calm or a fleeting moment of happiness.
"Sorry," he murmured, not raising his voice above a whisper.
He dropped his hands away and she closed her eyes to commit the lingering feeling of his touch to memory. She hadn't meant to deter him. She wanted to keep the pain of her loss locked up, hidden away. It was dark and private and she wasn't the only one who lost someone that night. They were still here, they still needed to live.
"Show me again," she said, holding her arm out to him.
She needed him to take it, needed him to touch her; anything to keep the darkness away.
He slid his hands back up her arms, his face even and his gaze unwavering. They moved together, slower than one would if they were truly training. Hands slid and feet shifted. Their touches lingered on the edge of something more until the kata was completed and there was nothing left to distract from their heavy breaths and the lack of space between them. His hands settled, one on her shoulders and the other on her waist, holding that silent moment, standing on the edge but reticent to lean forward.
"I'm not him," he said and there was pain beneath the want, open and obvious in the dim light of the dojo.
"And I'm not her," she replied.
She closed the distance between them until their lips met. The heat and humidity of the room melted away under the cool press of his skin. She opened her mouth to him, sighing when their tongues touched and his hands grew more persistent. They didn't move beyond this; slow, careful kisses and brushes of skin against skin. Maybe someday. When grief is better hidden and guilt doesn't burn so brightly. For now a touch was enough. It was what they needed.