Chxpter 3

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Meel dheer wax ka og, wax dhowna ha ka indha la’aannin

Know what is far, but do not be blind to what is near

Chxpter 3

The park stretched before us, bathed in the hesitant light of a sun that played hide-and-seek behind thick clouds. Golden patches danced across the worn basketball court in fleeting patterns, here one moment and gone the next. The distant joggers circling the perimeter were little more than silhouettes against the treeline, their rhythmic footfalls merging with the whisper of leaves.

The scent of fresh-cut grass hung in the air, mingling with the earthy perfume of soil still damp from yesterday's rain. Each breath carried the promise of approaching autumn—that particular crispness that settles into your lungs and reminds you that nothing, not even seasons, remains static. The subtle breeze made it’s way up the plain blue tee I sported under the plain black hoodie I wore to school. My hoodie laid under a nearby tree with our school bags, Levi’s hoodie and flannel. The chill raised goosebumps along my exposed forearms, tiny mountains and valleys mapping a terrain of sensation across my skin.

Levi bounced on the balls of his feet beside me, coiled energy barely contained in human form. The fragmentary sunlight caught in his hair, gilding the edges with amber, transforming ordinary brown into something precious. His muscles tensed beneath his skin like a predator preparing to pounce, familiar and yet somehow foreign in this moment. He always came having learned something new or mastered something different in martial arts with Ms. Bellagio and had a ball teaching me. I adored the way his eyes lit up when I mastered it too, probably the reason why I showed up almost five days a week for this sparring session.

"Alright, grasshopper," he said, cracking his knuckles with a sound that shattered the park's delicate quiet. "Let's see if today's the day you finally land a decent hit."

I finished tying my shoelace, the frayed fabric rough beneath my fingertips—a small, grounding sensation amid the strangeness that had been growing between us these past weeks. "Grasshopper?"

His lips curved into that familiar half-smile that had accompanied a thousand childhood misadventures. "Yeah. Wise student, determined, but still kinda hopeless." He tilted his head, studying me with theatrical consideration that didn't quite mask the genuine assessment beneath. "Like a honey badger that learned martial arts."

"I'd rather be a honey badger than your little apprentice," I replied, feeling the corners of my mouth twitch despite myself. "And for the record, I've landed hits before."

His laugh rolled between us, warm and familiar as an old quilt pulled from storage, carrying the scent-memory of all the times we'd huddled beneath it. But even as the sound wrapped around us, I noticed the way his body shifted, a transformation that never ceased to fascinate me.

The casual teenager disappeared, replaced by something far more dangerous. His stance widened slightly, weight balanced with the precision of a scale being calibrated. His hands opened, fingers spread but relaxed, ready to catch or strike or redirect. Even his breathing changed, deeper and steadied in count, much like a diver preparing to plunge beneath the surface.

"Alright, Ris," he said, voice dropping half an octave. "Let's rumble."

I mirrored his stance, studying the ways in which our bodies differed—his obvious height advantage, my lower center of gravity, the reach of his arms versus the quickness he often claimed I possessed but rarely managed to demonstrate. His eyes caught mine, bright blue, tracking my every micromovement.

"One of these days, Hoffman. You're gonna regret teaching me."

"Oh, I already do. You're the worst student I've ever had."

"I'm the only student you've ever had," I countered, feeling the familiar rhythm of our banter.

I struck first—a common mistake he'd pointed out dozens of times but one I couldn't seem to break. The energy that had been building in my muscles released in a single explosive movement, my fist cutting through the air toward his midsection.

His reactions always defied everything I knew about human movement. One moment he was there, my strike about to hit dead center; and the next, he had somehow flowed around my attack like water circumnavigating a stone, his hand sharply parrying my arm as he spun behind me in what felt like a singular second. Before I could recalibrate, his chest pressed against my back, his arm wrapping around mine in a controlled lock. His breath brushed warm against my ear, carrying the scent of mint and something uniquely Levi that I could have identified blindfolded in a crowded room.

"Too aggressive," he murmured, voice entirely too smug, each syllable vibrating from his chest into my spine. "You gotta—"

I drove my elbow backward with every ounce of force I could muster, aiming for the spot between his ribs where I knew he was sensitive. He spun me from his hold with ease, but not before I caught it—the slight wince, the momentary tightening around his eyes that betrayed the impact. A hairline crack in his perfect defense.

"I got you," I said, triumph surging through me. "That counted."

He exhaled slowly, a strand of hair falling across his forehead as he shook his head. "Fine. I'll give you half a point."

"Half a—"

The sentence died in my throat as he closed the distance between us in a blur of motion that my eyes registered only after it was complete. He was beside me, his leg already hooked behind mine with the precision of a mathematician drawing a perfect circle, the pressure of his calf against the back of my knee firm. He pulled— with exquisite timing, using my own positioning against me.

The ground vanished from beneath my feet.

My back slammed against the dirt with an impact that drove the air from my lungs in a painful rush. Tiny stones dug into my shoulder blades like miniature accusers, each one a reminder of my failure to anticipate his move. The sky above me reeled momentarily before settling into place, clouds continuing their indifferent journey across the blue expanse above it as if nothing of consequence had occurred.

Levi towered over me, hands braced on his hips, silhouetted against the sun that had chosen this moment to emerge fully from behind the clouds. Golden light rimmed his figure like some Renaissance painting of a saint, the irony of which wasn't lost on me given the circumstances. His shadow fell across my face, it carried a comfort despite being the artistic representation of my defeat.

I groaned, already anticipating the words that hovered on his lips—a mantra that had become as much a part of our training as the bruises I collected like badges.

His lips curved into that infuriating smirk. "The ground is more merciful—"

"—than my enemy," I finished, cutting him off with a scowl that felt more habitual than genuine. "Yeah, yeah. Heard it the first ten thousand times."

He extended his hand, an offering I accepted despite my wounded pride. His palm pressed against mine, warm and solid, calluses catching against my skin as he pulled me upward with an effortlessness that reminded me of our fundamental inequality in this arena. My muscles protested the movement, a dull ache spreading across my lower back like spilled ink soaking into parchment.

I settled back into position while he circled, his footsteps so light they barely disturbed the dirt beneath him—as if the earth itself were complicit in his stealth, muffling his movements while betraying mine with every shifting pebble.

His first strike came with little warning—a flash of movement like heat lightning on a summer horizon. I twisted at the last possible moment, his knuckles grazing my shoulder in what could have been a devastating blow had he not pulled back at the crucial moment. The touch was deliberate, a gentle reminder that in a real confrontation, I would already be at a significant disadvantage.

The truth of Levi's movements had been nagging at me for years—a splinter beneath the skin of my understanding that I couldn't quite extract. He moved with a fluid grace that defied explanation, as if gravity were merely a suggestion rather than a law. Watching him was like witnessing a dance choreographed by someone with intimate knowledge of how the human body could—and should—move if we ignored those limitations.