Lachlan
I shouldn't have let her up here.
That thought hit me the second I heard her footsteps on the stairs—light, hesitant. Not like the others. No one else ever climbed those stairs without a reason. No one wanted to be this close to the parts of me I kept hidden.
But Ria… Ria didn't flinch.
I watched her out of the corner of my eye while I filled the kettle, like if I didn't look straight at her, she wouldn't catch how off-balance I was. She moved like she didn't know where to put her hands. Like she was afraid to touch anything and leave fingerprints she couldn't take back.
She didn't belong here.
And that scared me more than anything. Because I wanted her here anyway.
I handed her the cup—careful, casual—but her fingers brushed mine, soft and warm, and something in my chest jumped like a misfire.
We sat in silence. The kind that should've felt awkward, but didn't. She was close. Not too close. Just close enough to matter.
She told me she thought about me. That she wanted to be near me.
That did something to me. Messed with the wall I'd spent years keeping solid.
Because I'd noticed her too.
Not just the way she watched me when she thought I wasn't looking. Or how she sat at the edge of everything like she didn't want to take up space, but couldn't help filling a room anyway. It was the way she listened. The way she never asked questions she didn't need answered. The way her eyes softened when she looked at me, like maybe she saw past the bruises and the silence and the damage.
And I hated that I wanted to let her keep looking.
She didn't know what it meant to want someone like me. Someone cracked down the middle, stitched together with mistakes and bad habits. Someone who lived out of a duffel bag and didn't know how to keep people around.
I looked at her then—really looked.
Hair loose now, hoodie sleeves pushed up, her thermos set down and forgotten between us. She didn't look scared. Just there. Present. Like she didn't care that the mattress was on the floor or that the only art on the wall was sweat stains and old tape.
"You always up this early?" I asked, voice low.
She glanced over. "No."
That was it. No excuses. No lies. Just honesty.
I liked that about her. Too much.
"You ever think about leaving?" she asked after a while, barely above a whisper.
I didn't answer right away. Just stared at the noodles in my cup, half-eaten and cold now.
"Sometimes," I said. "Then I remember I wouldn't know where to go."
She nodded like she understood. Maybe she did.
"I don't want to mess anything up," I said, quieter.
"With me," she said. Not a question.
I nodded.
"You won't."
"You don't know that."
"No," she said. "But I know you. At least… I think I do."
That scared the hell out of me. Because I wasn't sure anyone did. Not really.
I set the cup down. Rubbed a hand over my face. I hadn't slept more than two hours the night before. Too much in my head. Her face, her voice, the way she stood in that locker room and didn't back down when I cracked open just a little.
"I'm not good at people," I said.
"I'm not asking you to be," she replied.
I looked at her again, and this time, I let myself look longer. Let myself take in the curve of her mouth, the way she sat with her knees drawn up like she was still deciding if this was real or just a dream she'd wake up from.
"Why me?" I asked. "You could have anyone."
She blinked, confused. "I don't want anyone."
My throat tightened.
"I want you."
There it was. The words. The weight of them landing hard in the space between us.
I didn't answer. Couldn't. Not yet.
But I reached out—slow, like I didn't quite believe I was doing it—and took her hand.
She didn't pull away.
Her fingers slid between mine, warm and steady, grounding me in a way I hadn't felt in years.
We sat like that in the half-light of the early morning, not saying anything else.
Because for once… the silence didn't feel like a fight.
It felt like something starting.
Her fingers were warm in mine.
Not just physically—though yeah, they were—but warm in a way that settled something low in my chest. Like holding her hand was the first solid thing I'd touched in weeks. I hadn't meant to do it. Hadn't planned to. But now I didn't want to let go.
She looked down at where our hands met like she wasn't sure it was real either.
Then—
"LACHLAN! Get your ass up, you've got five minutes!"
The words slammed into the room like a grenade.
I flinched.
Ria jerked back a little, startled. I let go of her hand, not fast but… reluctantly. Like I was trying not to make it obvious how much I didn't want to.
Footsteps pounded on the metal stairs. A fist banged once against the doorframe without even opening it. Just a warning shot. Then Chiron's voice again—gravelly, always just on the edge of pissed off:
"You're late for pad work. I'm not waiting. Move!"
Then silence. Just the faint echo of boots hitting the ground as he walked off.
I didn't move for a second. Just stared at the door, jaw locked, heart suddenly pounding with a different kind of adrenaline.
"Sorry," I muttered. Not even sure who it was for. Her? Me?
Ria looked at the door, then at me. Her voice was soft, like she didn't want to break whatever was left of the moment. "Is he always like that?"
I snorted. "That was him being nice."
She smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. There was something else there. Like maybe she thought I'd forget all of this the second I walked downstairs.
I didn't want her to think that.
So I stood—slow, the way I always had to after a hard night, knees creaking, back stiff—and looked down at her.
"You can stay, if you want," I said. "Lock the door behind you. I'll be done in a couple hours."
She blinked. "You want me to stay?"
"Yeah," I said simply. "I do."
Her cheeks flushed. Not all the way. Just enough that I saw it. Felt it. She looked away like she wasn't sure what to do with that—like she wasn't used to being wanted, not in any way that felt real.
"Okay," she said after a beat. "Yeah. I'll wait."
I grabbed a clean shirt from the chair, pulled it over my head. My body ached, but not in the way it usually did. This wasn't from training. This was something else.
I opened the door, stepped out, and paused at the top of the stairs.
One last look over my shoulder.
She was still there, sitting on my floor, her cup of noodles untouched, fingers curled around her knee.
Waiting for me.
And for the first time in a long time, I didn't feel alone when I left the room.
Chiron
I watched him work the pads like he meant it.
Crack—left hook. Crack—cross. He moved sharp, controlled. None of that drifting he did when his head wasn't in it. Today, though? Kid was locked in. Eyes clear, shoulders loose, but not lazy. I'd seen him train a hundred times, maybe more. But this? This was different.
I didn't say it, though.
Didn't have to.
Compliments weren't currency in my gym. Sweat was. Discipline. Showing up when your body said no and your mind was already halfway out the door. Lachlan had fought me on all of that when he first got here—like a stray dog who didn't trust the hand holding the leash. But he stuck around. Lived upstairs. Kept his head down. Mostly.
Now he was moving like he had something to prove.
Or maybe someone to prove it to.
I caught him glancing toward the stairs once, real quick, between rounds. Didn't say anything about that either. But I noticed. And I wasn't dumb. Ria. Always here, eyes tracking him like he was the last fire left burning.
Didn't bother me. Not yet. Hell, maybe it helped.
I clapped the mitts together and barked, "Water. Then we talk."
Lachlan nodded, grabbed a bottle off the bench. He didn't even look winded. Just focused. Tight. Like all that chaos I'd seen boiling under his skin before had finally found somewhere to go.
I leaned against the ring post, crossed my arms. "You ever been to the west side?"
He paused mid-sip. "No."
"Well, you're about to."
He looked at me, frowning like he was trying to solve a math problem he didn't know he'd been handed. I let it hang for a second before dropping the rest.
"Grand Rapids. Month and a half from now. Underground card, but it's real. Big name out of Ohio's headlining, and they want a young fighter with looks. I pitched you."
He blinked. "You pitched me?"
"You're ready," I said. "Or you better be."
His jaw twitched. Not with nerves—determination. He didn't ask who the opponent was. Didn't ask how much money, or what weight class, or what bullshit politics were involved. That was how I knew he was ready.
He just nodded.
"Good," I said. "Start doubling your road work tomorrow. And cut the trash diet—you're gonna need to be sharp."
He nodded again, jaw tight now. Thinking. Calculating. Already putting together whatever it was he did in that head of his to get into fight mode.
I stepped closer, dropped my voice a little. "Listen. I've seen you run hot before. Burn out too fast. Whatever's got you dialed in like this? Keep it. Bottle it. Don't let it turn to noise."
His eyes flicked up to mine. He didn't say anything, but I could see it behind the stare.
He already knew what was keeping him steady.
I didn't press.
Didn't need to.
I just smacked the mitts once, loud enough to echo.
"Back in. Let's see if you're still standing in the fifth."
Ria
His room was quiet after the door clicked shut behind him. Too quiet.
I stayed sitting on the mattress at first, legs tucked beneath me, hands around the paper cup he'd left behind like it might still hold warmth. It didn't. The noodles were long cold, but I didn't throw them away.
I didn't want to move. Like if I stood up and wandered around, I might see something I wasn't supposed to. Or worse—touch something that mattered more than it looked.
So I sat there and looked instead.
The space was small. Bare bones. A mattress on the floor, no frame. A gym bag that looked like it had been through a war. Half a pair of old hand wraps tangled in the corner like he'd pulled them off in a rush and forgot about them. The walls were blank except for a calendar with half the months torn off, and a printout taped crooked above his desk—training cycles, notes scrawled in blocky handwriting. I leaned forward and squinted at one line, faint pencil underneath a date two weeks ago:
"Don't fold. Not again."
I swallowed.
Every inch of this place was worn in. Lived in. Not decorated, not softened. Just used. Like everything in it was made to survive, not impress. Just like him.
I let myself lie back after a while, head on his pillow. It didn't smell like cologne or anything fake. Just clean sweat, a little soap, maybe some of that winter air that clung to his clothes after he ran.
I could've left. Could've made some excuse, snuck out quietly.
But I didn't want to. Not yet.
So I waited.
Time passed like water dripping slow through a leak you can't find. I scrolled my phone a little. Dozed maybe. Not all the way asleep, but in that in-between place where dreams feel close and real life is blurry.
Then I heard the steps.
Shoes on metal stairs, heavy and steady. I sat up, rubbed my eyes.
The door creaked open.
Lachlan stepped in, sweat drying on his skin, hoodie clinging to his frame, hair damp and sticking to his forehead. His knuckles were taped, one spot on the right hand stained a dull pink. He closed the door behind him, leaned back against it like he hadn't expected to be met with silence.
His eyes found me immediately.
"You stayed," he said, voice rough with hours of work and not enough water.
"Yeah," I said softly. "Didn't feel like leaving."
He nodded like that meant more to him than he wanted to say. Then he pushed off the door, peeled off the hoodie, and tossed it toward the chair.
"Sorry I was gone so long."
"I figured you'd be a while." I hesitated. "You looked… focused. Before you left."
He glanced over at me, then down at his hands like he wasn't sure what to do with them. "Chiron told me I've got a fight."
Something in my chest flipped.
"Oh," I said, keeping my voice level. "When?"
"Month and a half. Grand Rapids."
"Bout time."
"Yeah," he said. He looked at me again, more fully this time. "It should be fun."
I nodded. "I've never been to Grand Rapids."
He huffed something close to a laugh. "Me too, guess it'll be a small adventure."
I watched him cross the room, slower now. He pulled off the wraps, tossed them into the corner, then sank down onto the mattress beside me like he wasn't sure he should—but did it anyway.
We sat like that for a beat.
Then I reached out, just gently, and took his hand—the one with the pink stain.
He looked at it, then at me.
"Does it scare you?" I asked. "That fight. That… people will be watching?"
He was quiet for a long time. Then: "It doesn't scare me that they'll watch. It scares me that I might lose myself again."
I squeezed his fingers. "Then let yourself."
His hand tightened around mine.
Neither of us moved. The fight was still ahead. But tonight, the war was over—for now.
And I wasn't going anywhere.