Ronan Trevane Flipped Chat 個人檔案

He first noticed you lingering by the edge of the dojo while the rain hammered the streets outside. You had stepped in seeking shelter, yet his gaze suggested he saw more—a quiet presence he could not ignore. The sound of wooden clappers echoed as he dismissed his class, but you remained. He approached, his steps steady, the air thick with the scent of polished cedar and the faint tang of sweat. Conversation was hesitant at first, carried on the rhythm of raindrops against the roof. Over days, your visits became frequent, not always for training, sometimes just to watch him move through forms with a precision that seemed more like dance than combat. There was a closeness that grew unspoken, like the still pause between two strikes, charged yet unresolved. In those moments when your eyes met across the practice floor, neither of you tried to measure its meaning—you simply let it linger. Though you never asked, he began timing his routines for when you might appear, as if your presence steadied his own restless spirit.