## Chapter 217 — Useful Resistance

Thomas suggested judo on the walk back from Isha’s second archery session.

The morning had been colder than the forecast promised. They followed the path beside the narrow river with their jackets closed and their hands occasionally touching between their pockets. New leaves had thickened along the cherry trees. The last fragments of blossom had vanished from the water, leaving cyclists, children and the ordinary green persistence of spring.

Isha carried the old arm guard in her bag. She had used the club bow again rather than opening the blue case, and Kuroda had begun teaching her how to adjust the sight instead of merely accepting where another archer had left it. Her arrows had grouped well without becoming implausibly perfect. Two had gone outside the red after she altered her stance too aggressively, and she had regarded the result with more interest than annoyance.

“There is a municipal sports centre two train stops from us,” Thomas said. “It has an adult beginner judo class on Wednesday evenings.”

Isha looked toward him. “For me?”

“For both of us.”

Her attention moved over his stride, shoulders and the hand holding the folded umbrella. Thomas recognised the assessment. She was not deciding whether he was incapable. She was deciding which part of the proposal had not yet been spoken.

“You dislike gyms,” she said.

“I dislike machines whose principal purpose is making a room smell of rubber while people watch themselves suffer in mirrors.”

“That sounds specific.”

“I have attended gyms.”

“Not happily.”

“Fitness is not required to be joyous.”

Isha stepped around a patch of damp grit without breaking pace. “Why judo?”

“Because it teaches falling, balance, leverage and movement with another person. You said you wanted to understand what this body can do.”

“I am learning through archery.”

“You are learning one part of it.”

“And you?”

Thomas took several steps before answering. The river moved below the concrete embankment, shallow enough that stones interrupted the surface.

“I have spent six weeks teaching my mind where it is,” he said. “Languages, accounts, applications, trains, records. I would like to teach the rest of me as well.”

Isha’s expression changed by very little. Her hand found his and remained there.

“You are healthy,” she said.

“I know.”

“You are not required to correct yourself because I am stronger.”

“I know that too.”

“Do you?”

Thomas considered giving the easy answer, then decided she had earned the accurate one.

“Most of the time.”

They walked beneath the shadow of a footbridge. The concrete briefly muted the traffic sounds from the road above.

“I do not want my body to remain something I compare with the one I lost,” he continued. “It is an ordinary body. That means it can improve in ordinary ways.”

Isha’s thumb moved once across his knuckles.

“And you believe being thrown onto a floor will help.”

“When phrased like that, the argument weakens.”

“You chose the phrasing.”

“I assumed you would find the prospect attractive.”

“I find the prospect of you learning to fall attractive.”

“That is not entirely reassuring.”

“It was not intended to be.”

The sports centre’s website offered a trial class for a small fee. Beginners could borrow a jacket if they wore suitable exercise clothes beneath it. Thomas completed the registration that afternoon, entering the medical information from their recent follow-up appointments and declining the section asking about prior martial-arts grades.

Isha read the translated rules beside him.

“No jewellery,” she said.

“Yes.”

“Nails cut short.”

“Yes.”

“No shoes on the mat.”

“Yes.”

“Inform the instructor of injuries.”

“Your shoulder.”

“It is recovered.”

“We still inform the instructor.”

Isha gave him a level look.

Thomas turned the laptop toward her. “You insisted that Kuroda’s authority over the range mattered.”

“It did.”

“The instructor’s authority over the mat will also matter.”

“You are enjoying this principle too much.”

“It has broad applications.”

She entered the date of her shoulder injury herself.

On Wednesday, Thomas changed shirts three times before settling on a plain dark one.

Isha sat on the edge of the bed in training trousers and watched him reject the second shirt because it clung too closely across the shoulders.

“You are not attending court,” she said.

“I know.”

“No one expects you to look impressive.”

“I know.”

“They expect you to be inexperienced.”

“I am aware of that.”

“Then why have you put the first shirt back on?”

Thomas looked down.

He had.

Isha stood and smoothed the fabric over his chest with both hands. The gesture was more intimate than the practical problem required.

“You look healthy,” she said. “You look ordinary. You are going somewhere to learn.”

Thomas rested his hands lightly at her waist. “You make ordinary sound ceremonial.”

“It may be.”

She kissed him once, then stepped away before the gesture became a reason to miss their train.

The sports centre stood beside a public park and a low school building. Its concrete exterior had been softened by planted shrubs, bicycle racks and several banners advertising swimming lessons, badminton sessions and exercise classes for older residents. Inside, the entrance smelled faintly of floor cleaner and warm air from the swimming pool below.

Thomas checked them in at the front desk. Isha followed most of the exchange without assistance, though the clerk’s explanation of the changing-room lockers contained an idiom she did not recognise. She waited until they were beyond the counter before asking.

“He meant that the lockers eat coins?”

“They return the coin when you open them.”

“Then they borrow coins.”

“That is less memorable.”

“It is also true.”

They separated at the changing rooms.

Thomas had expected the borrowed judo jacket to feel like clothing. Instead it felt like a portable furnishing: heavy cotton, stiff seams and a collar built to survive someone pulling upon it with conviction. The trousers were lighter. He tied the white belt according to a diagram fixed to the wall, disliked the result, undid it and tried again.

An older man changing nearby watched the second attempt.

“First time?” he asked in Japanese.

“Yes.”

The man set down his bag. He was broad through the chest, perhaps in his late fifties, with greying hair cut close and the relaxed posture of someone accustomed to the room.

“The knot is correct,” he said. “But it will loosen if the ends are uneven.”

Thomas adjusted it.

“Thank you.”

“I’m Tanabe. Wednesday class?”

“Thomas Albrecht.”

Tanabe glanced at the registration wristband Thomas had been given. “Trial class?”

“Yes.”

“Then you will spend the evening learning that the floor is stronger than you.”

Thomas looked toward the ceiling. “My partner explained something similar.”

“Experienced?”

“At falling?”

“At judo.”

“No.”

Tanabe nodded. “Then you can discover the floor together.”

When Thomas entered the dojo, Isha was already waiting near the edge of the mat.

The borrowed jacket made her look broader across the shoulders without disguising the lean shape beneath it. Her hair had been braided tightly and doubled back so that it would not reach the collar. The white belt around her waist had been tied correctly on the first attempt.

Thomas suspected she had found someone to ask rather than trusting the changing-room diagram.

Several students were already stretching. Their ages ranged from teenagers to people older than Tanabe. Some wore black belts, others brown or white. A woman with a green belt knelt to help a boy retie his jacket. At the far side, two men moved slowly through a throwing entry without completing it, one turning while the other followed and reset.

The lack of urgency made the movements harder for Isha to interpret. Her gaze tracked grips, feet, distance and the places where each person could have resisted but chose not to.

A compact woman in her forties approached them. Her black belt was faded at the edges, and her hair had been cut short enough not to require tying.

“Nakamura,” she said. “I teach the adult beginner group.”

Thomas and Isha bowed after she did.

Nakamura confirmed their names, injuries and prior experience. Thomas admitted to none. Isha explained in careful Japanese that she had practised archery and other physical disciplines but had never studied judo.

“What kind of other disciplines?” Nakamura asked.

Isha paused.

“Outdoor training,” Thomas said. “Balance, climbing, running. Nothing with a formal grade.”

This was close enough to the supplied records to require no invention.

Nakamura looked at Isha’s stance. “Gymnastics?”

“No.”

“Dance?”

“No.”

“Then we start with falling.”

Isha accepted this without visible disappointment.

Nakamura turned to Thomas. “And you?”

“Mostly walking.”

“Recently?”

“Several kilometres most days.”

“Any strength training?”

“Not systematically.”

“Good.”

Thomas had not expected *good*.

Nakamura noticed. “People who think they are strong often resist the lesson. People who know they are beginners sometimes listen.”

“That sounds less reassuring after thought.”

“Judo often does.”

The class began with a bow toward the front of the room and another between teacher and students. Nakamura explained the etiquette without mysticism. The bows acknowledged the space, the instruction and the people who would be responsible for one another’s safety. No one was required to perform reverence toward the building or toward her.

Isha listened closely.

They warmed up around the edge of the mat. Thomas’s body objected first through the calves, then the hips and finally the quiet accusation of his lungs. The pace was not severe, but the movements were unfamiliar: side steps, changes of direction, low turns and controlled squats. Isha moved easily until Nakamura instructed everyone to shorten their stride. Then she had to adjust. Her natural movement covered more ground than the drill permitted.

Thomas saw satisfaction rather than embarrassment when she corrected it.

They began the falling practice seated.

Nakamura demonstrated the back breakfall slowly. The chin tucked. The spine rounded. The body rolled toward the mat rather than striking it flat. Both arms met the surface at an angle, spreading force without reaching backward to save the fall through the wrists.

“The floor will not move for you,” she said. “Do not negotiate with it using one hand.”

The class repeated the motion from sitting.

Thomas’s first attempt produced more noise from his shoulders than from his arms. The mat did not hurt, but his body tightened before contact and made the landing abrupt.

Nakamura crouched beside him. “You are trying to stop halfway.”

“I noticed.”

“Do not stop. Shape the end.”

He tried again. The movement improved enough that his head remained clear of the mat.

Two places to his left, Isha lowered herself with excessive control. She rolled back, struck the mat correctly and returned to sitting in one smooth motion.

Nakamura watched her second attempt.

“Less slow.”

Isha looked up. “The position was correct.”

“Yes. Now let gravity participate.”

Isha repeated the fall faster. At the last moment her abdominal muscles tightened, altering the curve and returning her upright almost before the movement had ended.

Nakamura’s expression remained neutral. “You do not need to recover immediately.”

“I am ready to.”

“That is different.”

Isha glanced toward Thomas.

He looked away before his face could become an argument.

The class progressed from seated falls to squatting and then standing with assistance. Students worked in pairs, one holding the other’s sleeve and lapel while guiding them backward through a controlled loss of balance.

Nakamura did not pair Thomas and Isha.

Thomas was assigned to Tanabe, whose white belt marked him as a beginner despite the confidence with which he moved. Isha worked with a woman named Sato, slightly shorter and heavier through the hips, wearing a green belt.

Isha noticed the separation but made no objection.

“Couples often pay more attention to each other than to the drill,” Nakamura said as she passed between them.

Thomas considered denying this, then saw Isha watching whether Sato’s feet remained inside safe distance.

Nakamura had probably made the correct decision.

Tanabe took a standard grip on Thomas’s borrowed jacket, one hand at the sleeve and the other near the lapel.

“Do not hold your breath,” he said.

“I have been given that instruction before.”

“Then you are fortunate to receive consistent teaching.”

The drill was simple. Tanabe stepped back and drew Thomas forward until his balance moved toward the balls of his feet. He did not pull hard enough to threaten a fall. Thomas followed, recovered and repeated the movement.

“Too stiff,” Tanabe said.

“I am trying not to collapse.”

“You are standing as though the jacket belongs to someone else.”

It felt as though it did. The heavy collar shifted beneath another person’s hand, and every instinct Thomas possessed interpreted the grip as the beginning of restraint. His fantasy body remembered chains, hands, suppression and the cost of allowing another person to decide where he stood. His current body knew none of those events, but his mind supplied them quickly enough.

Tanabe loosened his grip.

“Pain?”

“No.”

“Then breathe.”

Thomas did.

The next pull still tightened something inside him, though less. Tanabe did not exploit it. He waited until Thomas’s shoulders lowered before stepping again.

Across the mat, Sato attempted the same drill with Isha.

Isha followed the first movement perfectly until her weight began to pass beyond neutral balance. Then her rear foot adjusted by a few centimetres and restored her position before Sato completed the pull.

Sato reset.

“Let me take the balance,” she said.

“You did.”

“For less than half a second.”

“That was sufficient to feel it.”

“Not sufficient for me to practise it.”

Isha went still.

Sato’s voice contained no challenge. She was not accusing Isha of failure or asking her to surrender more than the drill required. She was explaining that the movement belonged to both of them.

They tried again.

This time Isha allowed her weight to move farther forward. Sato guided, felt the shift and released. Isha recovered with one step.

“Better,” Sato said.

Isha considered the word before nodding.

Thomas understood the difficulty. In every serious encounter Isha remembered, another person taking her balance had been the beginning of injury, capture or death. Even in training with Green Road, mistakes had been corrected so they would not survive into danger. Allowing an opening for someone else’s education belonged to a different moral structure.

Tanabe drew Thomas forward again.

Thomas followed too far and had to move his foot quickly.

“There,” Tanabe said. “That is useful.”

“It felt like a mistake.”

“It was information.”

They changed roles.

Thomas took Tanabe’s sleeve and lapel. The fabric was thick enough that he had to use his whole hand rather than pinch. He stepped back and pulled.

Nothing happened.

Tanabe remained where he was.

“Use your body,” he said. “Your arms are not a separate committee.”

Thomas adjusted his stance and tried again. This time Tanabe moved, though the effort felt clumsy and larger than the result.

“Better.”

Thomas knew the praise was calibrated for a beginner. It did not make it false.

When Isha’s turn came to take Sato’s balance, she moved too efficiently. One change of angle brought Sato forward with enough speed that both women had to take an extra step.

Isha released her immediately.

“I am sorry.”

Sato checked her footing. “I am fine.”

“I used too much.”

“Yes.”

The direct agreement surprised Isha more than reassurance would have.

Sato reset her jacket. “Do it again with less.”

Isha narrowed the movement until it became almost invisible. Sato did not move.

“More.”

Isha increased it.

“More.”

On the fourth attempt, Sato’s balance shifted cleanly without her being dragged.

“That,” Sato said.

Isha looked at their joined grips. “You tell me when it is enough.”

“For now.”

They repeated the drill until Isha could produce the required imbalance rather than the greatest one available. Each repetition demanded judgement. Sato was not a target to defeat. She was a person offering structure so Isha could learn where the movement began and ended.

Nakamura gathered the class to demonstrate a turning entry.

She did not teach the full throw. One student established the grip, disturbed the partner’s balance and turned until the hips and feet reached the correct position. Then both reset without lifting or completing the movement.

“The person entering must make space correctly,” Nakamura explained. “The partner must not become dead weight. Follow honestly, protect your posture and allow the entry to exist. Cooperation does not mean collapsing.”

Isha’s gaze sharpened.

Nakamura demonstrated again with Sato. Sato moved when moved, resisted where posture required and remained stable enough that Nakamura’s technique had a meaningful shape. Neither performed defeat.

The pairs resumed.

Tanabe entered first against Thomas. His back turned, hips lowered and the grip guided Thomas toward a position from which the full throw would have followed.

Thomas’s body recognised the danger late. By then Tanabe had already stopped.

“Again,” Thomas said.

Tanabe looked at him. “You understand?”

“I understand why it would work.”

“That is not the same as being ready for it.”

“No.”

“Good.”

On the next entry, Thomas knew what was coming. His body stiffened sooner.

Tanabe stopped before completing the position.

“You are helping badly,” he said.

“I am not trying to.”

“Most bad help is like that.”

Thomas exhaled and reset.

The third attempt was better. He kept enough posture to remain a partner while allowing the movement to reveal its line. Tanabe turned, reached the entry and released.

Thomas felt where his own balance had ceased to belong entirely to him.

It was unpleasant.

It was also clear.

His turn was less elegant. He stepped too close, caught his own foot and apologised before Tanabe had finished telling him what went wrong.

“Do not apologise for being new,” Tanabe said.

“I nearly stepped on you.”

“You did not.”

“I made the movement useless.”

“That is why we repeat it.”

Thomas reset his grip.

Across the mat, Isha entered against Sato.

Her first turn was mechanically precise and socially wrong. She moved before Sato had offered enough resistance for the drill, reaching the position through speed rather than shared structure. Sato followed, but the movement resembled an answer delivered before the question.

Nakamura approached.

“Slow down.”

“I understood the path.”

“I know.”

“Then why—”

“Because Sato needs to feel the path too.”

Isha looked toward her partner.

Sato adjusted her collar. “I felt the end.”

“Not the beginning,” Isha said.

“No.”

Isha’s expression became thoughtful.

They tried again. This time she waited until the grip, posture and slight forward pressure existed between them. She disturbed Sato’s balance, turned and stopped in the correct position.

Sato’s hands remained active upon the jacket. Her posture had changed without disappearing.

“Yes,” Nakamura said.

Isha released and stepped away.

“That was slower,” she said.

“It was more complete.”

The distinction stayed with her.

They repeated the entry from both sides. Isha learned quickly, but not without error. Her feet sometimes reached the position before her grip had created the necessary movement. Once she turned too deeply and had to step out rather than pretend the shape was correct. Sato corrected her shoulder angle and made her repeat the entry six times without increasing speed.

Thomas’s progress was less rapid and more visible. His first successful entry arrived after several failures in which his hips remained too far away or his upper body tried to perform work his legs had not prepared. When the position finally aligned, Tanabe tapped his shoulder.

“There.”

Thomas held still.

The balance between them made sense. Tanabe was not yielding helplessly. He was maintaining enough honest resistance for Thomas to feel why the technique existed.

Thomas stepped out and smiled before he could prevent it.

Tanabe smiled back. “Again.”

By the midpoint of the class, sweat had darkened Thomas’s shirt beneath the jacket. His breathing was harder but steady. Muscles along his back and thighs had begun to report that they would object tomorrow. The discomfort was ordinary, comprehensible and almost comforting.

He was not preserving mana or calculating whether exhaustion would leave the party exposed. He was not trying to become strong enough for a threat he already knew was coming. He was learning where to place his feet.

Isha’s braid had loosened slightly at the base of her neck. She remained less visibly tired, though repeated unfamiliar falls and entries had begun to draw colour into her face. Sato made her rest twice, not because Isha lacked endurance but because her concentration turned intensity into speed whenever fatigue introduced uncertainty.

During the water break, Isha sat beside Thomas against the wall.

He handed her the bottle before taking his own.

“You were watching,” she said.

“I was resting in your direction.”

“You smiled when Nakamura corrected me.”

“I was pleased that authority remained evenly distributed.”

Isha drank.

“How is your body?” she asked.

“Tired.”

“Pain?”

“Not beyond expectation.”

“Your left hip is tighter.”

Thomas looked down. “You can see that?”

“You are sitting unevenly.”

He adjusted, then stopped. “Do not solve it for me.”

Isha’s gaze returned to his face.

“I did not ask you to ignore it,” he said. “Tell me. Let me decide what to do.”

Her expression softened. “Your left hip is tight. Your right shoulder rises before Tanabe turns.”

“Thank you.”

“You apologise before errors are complete.”

“That is not part of my body.”

“It changes your breathing and posture. It becomes part of the movement.”

Thomas considered objecting, then remembered Tanabe waiting for him to exhale.

“Fair.”

He looked across the room. Sato was speaking to Nakamura while demonstrating the angle of Isha’s last entry.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“About judo?”

“Yes.”

“I do not yet understand why people want to throw one another when no danger exists.”

“That seems important.”

“But I understand why they practise the movement.”

Thomas waited.

Isha turned the bottle between her palms. “The partner makes the problem real without making it hostile.”

“Useful resistance.”

“Yes.” She looked toward Sato. “She does not let me pretend the movement worked. She also does not prevent it merely because she can.”

“Do you like that?”

“I respect it.”

“That was not my question.”

“No.”

Thomas smiled.

Isha nudged his knee with hers. “I may like it later.”

The final section of the class returned to falling, this time with a partner guiding the movement from standing. No throws were completed. One person held the sleeve and supported the other through a controlled descent, allowing the falling student to practise the shape with greater height and less certainty.

Thomas worked with Tanabe.

The first guided fall felt worse than falling alone. Another person determined when his balance left him, even though Tanabe moved slowly and maintained support. Thomas’s hand wanted to reach backward. He stopped it, tucked his chin and met the mat with his arms.

The impact spread rather than concentrated.

He lay still for a moment.

“Good,” Tanabe said.

Thomas looked at the ceiling.

“That did not feel good.”

“It was safe.”

“That is not the same.”

“No. But it is the first requirement.”

Thomas sat up without haste.

On Isha’s side of the mat, Sato guided her backward. Isha followed until the last instant, then twisted her hips and placed one foot beneath herself, turning the intended fall into a low recovery.

Sato remained holding her sleeve.

They both paused.

“I did not mean to,” Isha said.

“I know.”

Nakamura had seen it. She approached without irritation.

“What happened?”

“My body found another position.”

“Was it unsafe?”

“No.”

“Was it the drill?”

“No.”

Nakamura nodded. “Then again.”

Isha reset.

Sato’s grip remained careful. She did not pull until Isha signalled readiness.

The second attempt reached the same threshold. Thomas saw Isha’s supporting leg tense. Her body knew several ways to escape the fall. She allowed none of them.

Sato guided her down.

Isha struck the mat correctly and remained there.

One breath passed.

Then another.

Sato did not release the sleeve until Isha looked toward her.

“Safe?” Sato asked.

“Yes.”

“Again?”

Isha sat up. “Again.”

They repeated the fall until allowing it ceased to resemble surrender. Isha still controlled her head, arms, spine and angle. Sato controlled only the beginning. The movement belonged to both of them.

When the class ended, everyone knelt for the closing bow.

Thomas’s knees disliked the position after an hour of unfamiliar work. Isha settled beside him with greater ease, though a small damp strand of hair had escaped near her ear. Nakamura thanked the class and reminded the beginners that soreness was normal, pain in joints or the head was not, and no one should practise unobserved throws at home after one lesson.

Her gaze passed briefly over Thomas and Isha.

Thomas wondered how often couples had ignored that instruction.

In the changing room, Tanabe untied his belt and asked whether Thomas would return.

“I think so.”

“Because you enjoyed it?”

Thomas considered.

“Because I was bad at it in ways that made sense.”

Tanabe laughed. “That is enough for several years.”

Thomas showered, changed and discovered that bending to tie his shoes had become unexpectedly demanding. He completed the task without complaint, though more slowly than before.

Isha waited outside beneath the sports centre’s entrance canopy. Her hair was loose again, slightly damp where she had washed around the braid. She held two bottles from a vending machine.

“You chose water,” Thomas said.

“I considered the sweet coffee.”

“And?”

“We are eating when we get home.”

“You have adapted dangerously well.”

She gave him one bottle.

They walked toward the station through the park. Evening had settled fully. Floodlights illuminated an empty baseball field, and the swimming-pool windows glowed blue through the trees.

Thomas’s legs felt heavier with each hundred metres.

Isha matched his pace without making the adjustment visible.

“You may walk normally,” he said.

“I am.”

“You are shortening your stride.”

“So were you during the warm-up.”

“That was an instruction.”

“This is courtesy.”

“I do not need—”

Isha stopped.

Thomas took one more step before turning back.

She stood beneath a streetlamp, her expression calm.

“You told me to tell you what I see and allow you to decide,” she said. “You did not tell me I must pretend not to see it.”

Thomas looked toward the station entrance fifty metres ahead.

“My legs are tired,” he admitted.

“Yes.”

“I can reach the train.”

“I know.”

“You do not need to slow down.”

“I want to walk with you.”

The answer removed the argument without making either of them smaller.

Thomas returned to her side.

On the train, they found two seats together. Thomas sat carefully and discovered that the backs of his shoulders also intended to complain. Isha lowered herself with greater control, then shifted once when the edge of the seat pressed against a newly tender place near her hip.

Thomas noticed.

She noticed him noticing.

“Do not look pleased,” she said.

“I am observing equal distribution.”

“You fell fewer times.”

“I fell with less talent.”

“That may be true.”

They travelled several stops in companionable discomfort.

A group of school students entered carrying instrument cases. An older woman slept with both hands folded over a shopping bag. The windows reflected Thomas and Isha side by side in ordinary clothes, no belts or borrowed jackets visible.

“Why do people do it?” Isha asked quietly.

“Judo?”

“Yes.”

Thomas thought of Tanabe’s grip loosening when his shoulders tightened, Sato asking for enough resistance to practise, Nakamura making Isha slow down so another person could feel the beginning of the movement.

“Some people compete,” he said. “Some want exercise. Some want to defend themselves. Some enjoy becoming technically good at something difficult.”

“That describes archery.”

“It describes many things.”

“It does not explain why they choose this one.”

“No.”

Isha watched the dark city pass beyond the glass.

“Perhaps the reason comes after the practice,” she said.

“That seems inefficient.”

“You spent years learning spells before understanding what they were for.”

“That is unfair.”

“It is accurate.”

Thomas rested his head lightly against hers.

At home, neither suggested cooking anything complicated.

Thomas prepared noodles while Isha cut vegetables. His grip felt normal, but reaching into a high cupboard reminded him of every time Tanabe had pulled upon his jacket. Isha moved more slowly when turning at the counter, testing the line of her hip without admitting she was doing so.

They ate at the small table.

Afterward, Isha opened the sports-centre registration page and found the option for a four-week beginner block.

Thomas looked over her shoulder. “Four weeks?”

“Once each week.”

“I can read it.”

“You are standing as though you are deciding whether wanting it creates an obligation.”

Thomas leaned one hand against the chair.

“I want to continue.”

“So do I.”

“You said you did not know whether you liked it.”

“I do not.”

“That is usually relevant.”

“I liked learning from Sato.”

Thomas sat beside her.

“What did she teach you?”

“That a practice opponent is not an enemy who has agreed to move slowly.” Isha looked toward the dark laptop screen before waking it again. “She needs me to resist enough that her movement is honest. She also needs me to allow the movement far enough that she can learn.”

“That sounds difficult for you.”

“Yes.”

The admission contained no shame.

Thomas touched her hand. “I liked Tanabe.”

“Because he told you not to apologise?”

“Among other reasons.”

“You should continue training with him.”

“I doubt partners are assigned permanently.”

“Then you may learn not to depend upon one person.”

Thomas gave her a look.

Isha’s mouth curved. “Useful resistance.”

She selected two places in the beginner block but did not complete the payment.

“Together?” she asked.

The word referred to the class, not to pairing. Nakamura might separate them every week. They might learn with people of different sizes, ages and abilities. They might spend a month practising how to fall without throwing anyone at all.

Thomas entered the payment details.

“Together,” he said.

The confirmation arrived by email. Isha added the next Wednesday evening to their calendar beneath Saturday archery and Thomas’s appointment with the university support office.

Their week acquired another chosen structure.

Later, in bed, Thomas discovered that turning onto his side required negotiation with muscles he had not previously known needed consulting. Isha lay facing him, one hand beneath the pillow.

“You are smiling,” she said.

“It hurts less when I do not move.”

“That is not a reason to smile.”

“It is familiar in a harmless way.”

Isha studied him in the dim light. “You do not need pain to prove the body is yours.”

“I know.”

“But?”

Thomas moved his hand across the space between them. She met it halfway.

“It did something today that it could not do yesterday,” he said. “Badly, but deliberately.”

Isha threaded her fingers through his.

“My body allowed someone else to take its balance.”

“How did that feel?”

“Wrong.”

Thomas waited.

“Then useful,” she added.

He brought her hand to his chest. Her knuckles rested against the steady ordinary movement of his heart.

“We are not practising together at home,” she said.

“I had no intention of throwing you in the bedroom.”

“You would not succeed.”

“That was not the principal obstacle.”

“Good.”

She moved closer with care for both their sore shoulders. Thomas settled his forehead beneath her chin, accepting the arrangement without interpreting it as defeat.

Beyond the curtains, a train passed somewhere toward the centre of the city. Its sound reached them only after distance had softened it.

The next class waited six days away.

Neither of them needed to be ready sooner.