Lachlan
Detroit, three days later
The cold hit different after Tennessee.
We touched down just before sunrise, sky bruised with early morning smog, the city still half-asleep. Detroit had a kind of stillness that didn't pretend to be anything else. Honest in its rust and grit. Like it didn't give a damn whether you made it home or not—it'd still be here. Same cracked sidewalks. Same broken streetlights buzzing like dying bees.
I liked that.
The quiet didn't lie.
Chiron didn't say much on the drive back. He never did after fights. Let the silence settle, let it breathe. The hum of the road was enough. The kind of silence that didn't ask questions but waited for the answers to come when they were ready.
My knuckles were swollen. The skin over my right hand had split again, same place. But it didn't throb like it used to. Just a dull, familiar ache—like something earned.
"You did good," Chiron said finally, pulling into the alley behind the gym.
I looked over. He didn't turn his head. Just kept his eyes on the road like the words were something casual, not the highest praise he ever gave.
"Thanks," I said.
He parked. Engine off. Street quiet.
He looked at me then. "You didn't lose yourself."
I nodded, but I didn't answer.
Because part of me had.
Not to the fight. Not to the violence.
But to the feeling I got right after. That slow-burn clarity. That steadiness in my chest that hadn't come from blood or victory.
It came from the way I kept thinking of her.
Ria.
Her voice on the phone the night before the fight. The softness of it, even through static.
"Whatever happens in there, I'll be here when you get out."
She hadn't needed to say it. But she did. And it anchored me harder than any training ever could.
I got out of the car. Cold air slapped my face. Didn't bother me.
The gym lights were still off. Early enough that the city hadn't noticed we were home yet. My duffel bag felt lighter than it should have.
Chiron followed me in through the back entrance. He flicked the breakers and the fluorescents buzzed to life one row at a time, casting that familiar pale glow over the mats and heavy bags. The gym smelled like sweat and liniment and memory.
"I've got a kid coming in at nine," Chiron said. "Promising southpaw. You should spar him."
I raised a brow. "I just fought three days ago."
"You didn't get touched."
I smirked, shook my head. "You got a funny way of showing appreciation."
He walked past me, heading toward his office. Stopped at the door.
"You want something easy, pick another life."
Then he disappeared inside.
I dropped my bag by the wall and sat on the edge of the mat. Palmed my hands, stared at the angry red line across my knuckles.
Still split.
Still healing.
I flexed my fingers slowly, feeling every pull of skin.
Then I pulled out my phone.
One text from Ria.
[You home yet?]
Simple. But it hit.
I typed back:
[Yeah. Just got in.]
Pause.
Then I added:
[Wanna come by later?]
She didn't text back right away.
I didn't mind.
I just leaned back against the wall, letting the gym breathe around me.
A few minutes passed.
Then the buzz.
[Yeah. I'll bring coffee.]
Just like that, something in my chest unlocked.
Not all the way.
Not yet.
But enough.
I wasn't fixed. I didn't need to be.
I just needed her to keep showing up.
And maybe—slowly—I'd keep showing up, too.
One piece at a time.
Later that day – Chiron's Gym, Detroit
It was mid-afternoon by the time she showed up.
I heard the bell above the front door before I saw her—sharp, familiar. The kind of sound that usually triggered instinct, made me turn, assess. But not this time. This time it just made something settle low in my chest, like gravity pulled a little more cleanly for a second.
I was working the bag when she came in. Wrapped hands, rhythm steady. Left hook, step in, cross. A slow, deliberate pace. No pressure to kill it. Just movement. Just heat in the muscles and breath in my lungs.
I caught her in my periphery before I saw her head-on—dark jeans, big coat, coffee tray in one hand, hair braided over her shoulder. Her eyes found me like they always did: directly, unflinching. Not like she was looking at a fighter. Not like she was looking at something broken.
Just me.
I stepped back from the bag, stripped the tape off my hands, and met her halfway across the mat. My fists still smelled like leather and chalk.
She held out one of the cups.
"Black. No sugar. I remember," she said.
"You remembered," I repeated, taking it.
She gave me that half-smile—wry, tired, a little guarded. Like she wasn't sure what version of me she'd walked in on today.
"You look like you didn't sleep," she said, scanning my face.
"Didn't," I admitted. "Not much."
She didn't ask why. She didn't have to.
"You hungry?"
I shook my head. "Not yet. Might be later."
We stood there in the middle of the gym, steam curling out of paper cups, the air between us soft but charged. Like a match just waiting for friction.
She looked around. The place was mostly empty—Chiron had gone upstairs again, left us the space without needing to say it out loud. He knew. Probably more than I wanted him to.
"How was Tennessee?" she asked eventually, settling onto the edge of the mat, cross-legged.
I followed, sitting beside her. Close, but not touching.
I thought about how to answer.
"Clean," I said after a beat. "Not easy. But clean. Like everything slowed down and lined up the way it was supposed to."
She sipped her coffee. Watched me. Waited.
"And?"
"And I kept thinking about you," I said. Voice low, honest.
That stilled her.
I looked down at my hands. They were finally starting to scab right. But the ache wasn't just from impact. It was memory. The kind that sat under your skin and stayed warm, even in the cold.
"You weren't a distraction," I said. "You helped me focus. I've never had that before. Someone to come back to. Someone real."
She looked at me, something tender flickering in her eyes.
"You came back different," she said.
"Different good or different bad?"
"I don't know yet," she admitted. "But you're here. And that counts for something."
Silence stretched again. Comfortable. Measured. We listened to the thrum of the city outside—muffled traffic, a siren in the distance, the familiar pop of steam from the old radiator.
Then her voice, soft:
"You ever think you could walk away from this? From fighting?"
I exhaled through my nose, eyes fixed on the far wall.
"I've thought about it. Never thought I could. But I'm starting to."
"Why now?"
I looked at her.
"Because you make me think about what comes after. About a life that isn't just blood and noise and barely holding it together."
She reached over and touched my wrist—barely. But it felt like someone flipping a switch inside me.
"You don't have to prove anything to me," she said. "You already did."
"Yeah?" I murmured.
"You came home."
I swallowed hard.
"Can I show you something?" I asked.
She nodded.
I rose and walked to my bag, pulled something from the side pocket—a small, worn photograph, edges curling. I brought it back and handed it to her.
She took it carefully.
It was old. Grainy. Me and my mom on the porch, back when I was small. Storm clouds in the background. Her hand on my shoulder. Both of us smiling like the world wasn't something to survive, but something to love.
"I used to think I had to carry her memory with fists," I said. "Like the only way to honor her was to never be soft. Never be vulnerable. But maybe that wasn't the point."
She looked at the photo a long time, then back at me.
"Maybe the point was to come home."
My throat tightened.
I nodded.
"Yeah," I said. "Maybe it was."
She handed the photo back, gently. I didn't put it away right away. Just held it, flat in my palm.
We sat there a while longer, no rush. Just two people in the bones of a gym, the smell of sweat and liniment thick around us, coffee cooling in our hands. The storm outside never came.
Inside, I felt something settle.
Not peace.
But maybe the start of it