## Chapter 326 — For Thomas

Wednesday began with Isha taking the equipment bag from Thomas before he had fully lifted it from the genkan floor.

He kept hold of the strap.

“I can carry it.”

Isha said she knew and waited with one hand beneath the bag, the other still holding her own shoes. “You chose the range. I am carrying the equipment.”

“That sounds like a rule.”

She shifted the strap towards him rather than pulling it away. “It is an offer.”

Thomas considered the distinction while the strap remained between them. The bag contained one light recurve, six centre arrows, two arm guards, a finger tab, a bow sling and enough empty space to make resistance mostly symbolic.

He released it.

“All right.”

Isha settled the strap over her shoulder. “Good.”

It was Wednesday, 17 February. The university had finished normally, the climbing centre had not scheduled Isha, and the evening calendar contained no training block under her name. She had written only **THOMAS** in the shared entry, then changed it to **THOMAS — CHOOSES** after he objected that his name alone looked like a medical appointment.

He had chosen the municipal archery range first and a difficult dinner afterward. Isha had accepted both without adding a third activity for efficiency.

They left flat 202 at five forty-eight.

The sports hall was busier than during the holiday session. Badminton occupied both main courts, and a children’s basketball class sent bursts of whistles through the corridor whenever the range door opened. Nakahara had reserved lane three for them at six thirty and placed a ten-metre target in front of the usual backing wall.

He greeted Isha, then addressed Thomas directly. “Same draw weight?”

“Eighteen pounds today,” Isha said.

Thomas looked at her.

She stopped with the equipment bag halfway onto the bench. “That was the weight you chose when we booked.”

“It was.”

Nakahara’s eyes moved between them without visible interest in the history beneath the correction. “Eighteen pounds, then. Ten metres first?”

Thomas answered before Isha could. “Ten until the arrows behave as though they know one another. Eighteen if my back remains quiet.”

“That is a sensible plan.” Nakahara opened the equipment room. “The arrows may refuse the social requirement.”

Thomas followed him inside. “They did previously.”

Isha stayed near the bench and removed her coat. She did not select a bow for herself.

The eighteen-pound limbs differed from the previous pair only in their marking. Thomas inspected the limb pockets, string grooves and nocking point while Isha stood beside him with her hands behind her back. She answered questions when he asked and allowed several checks to remain imperfectly slow.

He strung the bow correctly on his first attempt.

The upper loop settled into its groove. Thomas checked it twice, then looked towards Isha.

“Well?”

Isha studied the seated loop and his expectant face. “The string is attached. You wanted the session to remain about your judgement.”

“I also wanted admiration when justified.”

She stepped closer and pressed one finger lightly against the upper loop, confirming it was fully seated. “You remembered the order and did not place the stringer backwards.”

Thomas waited.

“I am proud of you.”

“That became excessive.”

Her mouth moved as she handed him the arm guard.

The first three draws used no arrow. Thomas’s right shoulder wanted to rise towards his ear as the string came back. Isha corrected him once, then stood where he could see her without needing to turn his head.

He raised again. The bow shoulder stayed lower. His drawing elbow travelled around rather than stopping behind the hand. The string reached the side of his face with less effort than it had the week before.

“Better?” he asked after lowering.

“Yes. Your back joined before your arm became desperate.”

“That is the most encouraging description it has received.”

At the shooting line, he nocked the first arrow and checked the coloured vane. The sight pin moved across the target, never still and less alarming now that he expected it.

Thomas drew, held long enough to begin negotiating with the movement and released after the useful moment had already passed.

The arrow entered the outer black ring at four o’clock.

He looked at the target, then at Isha.

“It counts,” she said.

“I had not questioned that.”

“You were about to.”

Thomas nocked the second arrow. This time he completed the draw before trying to perfect the sight. The release remained untidy, but the arrow reached blue, lower and left of centre.

The third struck black several hand widths above the first.

All three had reached the paper. None appeared acquainted.

During collection, Thomas removed each arrow straight from the target and placed it into the floor quiver in the same order. Isha watched without naming the scattered group.

“What do you want corrected?” she asked.

“The late release.”

“Then stop holding after the shot has become ready. You are waiting for certainty the sight cannot provide.”

Thomas looked at the target face from close range. “That advice may have broader applications.”

“It is about the bow.”

“Good. I dislike lessons hiding inside recreation.”

On the second end, two arrows entered blue and one reached red. The group remained broad, but all three occupied the lower-left quarter. Thomas’s expression changed before he turned from the line.

Isha lifted one thumb.

He raised his bow slightly in acknowledgment and almost struck the brim of his own cap with the upper limb.

Nakahara called from lane one, “Keep the victory within the lane.”

Thomas lowered the bow. “The equipment is emotionally larger than expected.”

By the fourth end, his arrows had moved towards the centre. One entered red. Two landed in blue within a spread small enough that Isha could cover them with both hands held side by side.

Thomas stood behind the waiting line and stared at the target.

“You are pleased,” Isha said.

“I am deciding whether moving to eighteen metres will improve the story or damage the evidence.”

“The evening does not require a story.”

He looked at her. “Ten metres again.”

She nodded.

The fifth end went worse. The first arrow struck low black. The second reached the backing wall above the paper after Thomas lifted his chin during release. The third entered white.

He breathed out and lowered the bow.

Isha did not tell him fatigue had proved the session should end. She waited while he rolled the right shoulder, opened and closed the drawing hand and examined the line of his own stance.

“No pain,” he said. “The second arrow was not physical failure. I tried to see around the string.”

“You cannot improve the view by moving the face attached to it.”

“That became clear after release.”

Thomas took a longer rest, drank water and asked for one final end at ten metres.

The first arrow entered blue.

The second landed close enough that the fletching brushed the first shaft.

Thomas nocked the third with deliberate slowness. He placed his feet, settled the grip and raised the bow. The sight moved through red, gold, red again. He drew until the string found the same point at his face, continued through the movement and released before certainty could become another task.

The arrow struck between the first two.

For a moment, Thomas remained at the line with the bow tilted safely towards the target. Then he turned.

Isha’s composure had failed completely. Her smile was broad, proud and directed entirely at him.

“Those arrows know one another,” she said.

Thomas looked back at the group. “Professionally, perhaps.”

“I think they are close friends.”

“That interpretation exceeds the evidence.”

He was still smiling when Nakahara gave the collection signal.

The three shafts formed a group slightly larger than Thomas’s open hand, all within blue. Isha photographed it only after asking whether he wanted the record.

“Yes,” he said. “But no comparison grid.”

Isha pointed out that she had not proposed one. Thomas replied that she owned several, which she considered irrelevant evidence.

“They are useful.” She saved the photograph without measuring the group. “This one may remain a picture.”

Thomas returned the equipment himself. Isha carried the closed bag to the exit because that had been part of her offer and had not become less welcome when he shot well.

Outside, the cold had sharpened. Their breath showed beneath the entrance lights. Thomas flexed his drawing fingers inside his glove and announced that his back was fine.

Isha had been watching the shoulder, though not only for pain. “I was also looking at your face. It was unusually smug.”

“I had a strong final end.” Thomas tried to moderate the expression and failed when she agreed.

The uncomplicated praise pleased him enough that Isha took his hand before they reached the station.

---

Thomas’s difficult meal was fresh ravioli.

The filling combined roasted mushrooms, chestnuts, ricotta, hard cheese and enough black pepper to prevent the sweetness from becoming polite. The sauce required browned butter, sage, lemon and a little of the mushroom stock Thomas had begun before leaving for work. He had also bought pears for a small almond tart, which Isha discovered cooling beneath a cloth as soon as they entered the kitchen.

“You prepared dessert before Wednesday began,” she said.

“I prepared components. Wednesday remains legally intact.”

“The tart is complete.”

“It still requires glaze.” Thomas put the archery bag beside the table. “Do not touch it.”

Isha looked at the tart, then at him. “I am the assistant.”

“Yes.”

“Assistants inspect materials.”

“Visually.”

She removed her coat and washed her hands with exaggerated compliance.

Thomas had made the pasta dough that morning and left it wrapped in the refrigerator. It came out firm and yellow from eggs. Isha set up the roller while he reheated the mushroom mixture and adjusted its seasoning.

He passed her the first small spoonful.

She tasted it, held the flavour for several seconds and looked towards the pan.

“More pepper.”

Thomas added half the quantity she suggested, stirred and offered the spoon again.

Isha tasted. “Correct.”

“You may now stop sampling the filling.”

“I have tested only two versions.”

“There will be a finite number of ravioli.”

Isha handed back the spoon. Her attention remained on the pan as Thomas folded in ricotta and grated cheese. When he turned to retrieve the lemon, one finger entered the mixture at the edge.

Thomas turned back.

Isha held the fingertip near her mouth with no attempt to conceal the act. “The cheese changed it.”

“That was the intended function.”

“It required verification.”

Thomas looked at the shallow mark her finger had left near the edge. “You have consumed approximately one raviolo.”

“The singular is raviolo?” she asked, diverting him successfully enough that he had to admit he believed so.

“Then one is insufficient for quality control.”

He moved the pan farther from her side of the counter.

They rolled the dough into long sheets. Thomas controlled the thickness dial; Isha fed the pasta through and supported the emerging length across both forearms. Her first sheet stayed smooth. The second developed a slight fold near the edge because she watched Thomas dust the worktop instead of watching her hands.

He saw it and reached for the damaged section.

“I can correct it,” Isha said.

“I know. Turn it through the previous setting once.”

She did. The fold flattened enough to disappear into the next pass.

Thomas cut rounds with a metal ring. Isha placed teaspoons of filling in the centre and began adding slightly more to each one.

“The fourth will not close,” he said.

“It will.”

“The edge requires empty space.”

Isha looked at the generous mound. “The eater benefits from filling.”

“The eater benefits from ravioli that remain closed in water.” Thomas removed a small portion and returned it to the bowl. “You are favouring immediate abundance over structural survival.”

Isha watched him reseal the edge. “This is still about pasta?”

“Yes,” he said, which allowed her to continue with visible satisfaction.

She pressed the edges together with careful fingers and used a fork only after Thomas explained that the decorative marks also reinforced the seal. The ravioli accumulated in neat rows across a floured tray. One contained more filling than the others because Thomas did not notice her final adjustment.

Isha marked it with a nearly invisible extra fork line.

Thomas noticed that instead.

“That one is yours.”

Isha confirmed it without apology. Thomas regarded the extra fork mark as evidence of private allocation inside a shared batch.

“I contributed labour,” she said.

He let it remain.

The butter required Isha’s most serious assistance. Thomas melted it slowly until the milk solids began changing from pale foam to amber flecks. Sage leaves went in near the end, crackling and darkening at their edges. Lemon zest followed after the heat came down.

Isha leaned close enough to smell it and reached for the tasting spoon.

“Not yet,” Thomas said.

“The colour is correct.”

“The salt is not.”

She waited while he added the pasta water and whisked the emulsion together. The sauce changed from separated butter to a glossy layer that clung to the spoon.

Thomas offered it.

Isha tasted, closed her eyes briefly and kept the spoon.

“Well?”

“Again.”

Thomas held out his hand for the spoon. “You have already assessed it.”

Isha surrendered the utensil with obvious reluctance. “I may have been distracted by the first impression.”

Thomas replaced the spoon and tasted the sauce himself. Isha leaned over the pan and sampled the smallest amount from his spoon before he could move it away.

Her expression became pleased enough that irritation lost its available space.

“You are an undisciplined assistant,” he said.

“I am an excellent audience.”

“That was not the assigned role.”

“Roles may overlap.”

Thomas looked towards the ravioli tray. “Set the table before the filling experiences another inspection.”

Isha obeyed, taking the bowl with her only because he removed it from reach and placed it in the refrigerator.

The pasta cooked in two batches. One raviolo opened at the edge and released a pale ribbon of ricotta into the water. Thomas watched it with personal disappointment.

Isha looked at the tray. “Not mine.”

Isha used that fact to argue that additional filling had not caused the failure. Thomas watched the pale ricotta dispersing into the water and refused to grant the batch the dignity of a controlled trial.

“It has a comparison sample,” she said.

Thomas rescued the damaged pasta with a slotted spoon. “Set out the plates.”

“They are already set.”

“Then stand somewhere less analytically pleased.”

She stood behind him, placed both hands at his waist and looked over his shoulder while he transferred the intact ravioli into the butter sauce. Her chin rested near his hair. The position reduced his working space and improved his mood enough that he did not ask her to move.

They ate at the dining table shortly after nine.

The pasta remained tender at the edges and firmer where the layers met. Mushrooms and chestnuts gave the filling depth without turning it heavy. Brown butter carried sage and lemon across each piece, with enough pasta water to keep the sauce from becoming oil.

Isha found the marked raviolo in the centre of her plate.

She cut it open. The extra filling remained inside.

“Structurally sound,” she said.

“Through luck.”

“Through confident design.”

Thomas ate his own and watched her take the first bite of the larger one. Isha’s eyes closed for less than a second. She opened them and reached across the table for his hand.

He gave it to her.

“This is very good,” she said.

Thomas’s fingers tightened around hers. “Thank you.”

She did not improve the compliment into technical detail. He did not ask whether it surpassed the birthday cake, the New Year soba or any meal attached to a larger memory.

The pear tart came after the plates were cleared. Thomas brushed the surface with warm apricot glaze while Isha stood close enough to receive the first imperfect edge piece directly from the knife.

She tasted the pear, almond and crisp pastry, then held the plate towards him.

“You should test it.”

“I made it.”

“That is not tasting.”

Thomas took a bite from the same fork. Isha watched his face with the concentration she had given the archery target.

“The pastry is good,” he said. “The pear needed another two minutes.”

Isha rejected the criticism at once. Thomas accused her of bias created by access; she finished the bite before answering.

“I have become informed by repeated testing.”

She took the fork back and finished the bite before he could revise the assessment.

---

They washed the final pan together.

Thomas cleaned. Isha dried, following his preferred order even though she would normally have begun with the knives before the plates. When the kitchen returned to its ordinary state, she folded the towel and looked towards the shared calendar on the refrigerator.

The Wednesday entry had no third item.

“Was that the programme?” she asked.

Thomas dried his hands. “There was one additional test.”

Isha looked towards the archery bag, then the empty pasta tray. “Your back?”

“No.”

“The tart?”

“Already tested excessively.”

Thomas’s composure failed near the corners of his mouth. Isha recognised the expression and waited rather than supplying another guess.

He stepped closer.

“You carried ninety-five kilograms for thirty metres,” he said. “I weigh less.”

Isha supplied the difference—approximately seventeen kilograms—with enough speed to prove she had retained the earlier measurements.

“You did not need to perform the calculation aloud.”

“You introduced the comparison.”

Thomas placed both hands at her waist. “I would like a more relevant assessment.”

The meaning became clear through his touch before the wording finished. Isha’s gaze moved across his face, checking playfulness, certainty and the absence of pain he might be trying to ignore.

“How relevant?”

“Standing lift. No run-up. No throwing, no shoulder carry and no wall damage.”

Isha’s gaze warmed as she recognised how long the idea had probably occupied him. “You have considered the protocol.”

“For several days.”

The admission warmed her expression further. “Your back is fully recovered?”

“Yes. Shoulders too.”

Isha made him confirm that he would report discomfort in his ribs, neck or back. Thomas agreed, then moved closer until his body touched hers from chest to thigh.

“You may also stop if I become structurally inconvenient.”

“You often are.”

Isha set one foot behind herself for balance. Her hands slid from his waist to the backs of his thighs.

“Arms around me,” she said.

Thomas obeyed. His forearms crossed behind her neck, careful not to pull. He bent one knee when she tapped the leg, then the other. Isha lowered slightly, brought his weight close and stood.

The floor left Thomas’s feet.

His breath caught beside her ear.

Isha held him high against her body, one arm beneath each thigh and his weight settled close enough that balance mattered more than raw effort. Thomas locked his ankles loosely behind her hips. The position brought his face level with hers.

“You are smiling,” she said.

“The test has produced an encouraging preliminary result.”

Isha walked three steps through the LDK.

Thomas tightened his arms by instinct. “This was not specified.”

“Loaded carries are part of strength assessment.”

“I had imagined a static measure.”

“You requested relevance.”

She turned towards the hallway. Thomas looked past her shoulder and understood the destination.

“That appears methodologically biased.”

“You may ask to be lowered.”

He looked at her mouth, then back into her eyes. “Continue.”

Isha carried him down the hall without strain dramatic enough to satisfy the comparison he had introduced. His weight required real work—legs, trunk, grip and balance—but remained safely inside what her body could do. The knowledge sat in her movement and in the pleased colour rising across Thomas’s face.

At the bedroom door, she stopped.

“One repetition completed,” she said.

Thomas did not loosen his ankles. “The result may require confirmation.”

Isha shifted one hand higher beneath his thigh and pressed him gently against the wall beside the door. The contact took some of his weight from her without creating distance.

Her leg moved between his for balance.

The firm line of her thigh settled against him through their clothes. Thomas drew a sudden breath. His body answered before composure could arrange a joke, pressing back with unmistakable warmth.

Isha felt it.

Her eyes lifted to his. Satisfaction entered slowly, softened by the question she left him room to answer.

“No wall damage,” she reminded him.

Thomas’s arms tightened around her neck. “I believe the building remains intact.”

She adjusted her stance by a fraction. Muscle shifted beneath the fabric of her trousers, increasing the pressure just enough to make his next breath less controlled.

“Subject condition?” she asked.

Thomas kissed her before answering. The first contact was brief and amused. The second lasted longer, his weight held securely between the wall, her arms and the strong thigh he had stopped pretending not to press against.

When they separated, he rested his forehead against hers.

“Extremely positive.”

Isha lowered him until his feet touched the floor, though her leg remained between his for another moment.

Thomas stayed against her, arms still around her neck. Neither looked towards the kitchen.

Then he bent one knee again.

Isha glanced down at it.

“Repeated testing,” he said, “improves confidence.”

She caught him beneath the thighs before his second foot left the floor.