Lachlan
Three days passed.
The city never stopped humming, but I did.
I stayed in the shadows of Chiron's gym, hours bleeding into each other. No calls. No crowds. No adrenaline. Just the smell of sweat, metal, and disinfectant.
The world felt slower. Like someone had let the air out of it.
I sat in the corner after hours, knees up, hoodie pulled over my head. Lights off. Just the blue buzz of a vending machine and the occasional groan of old pipes.
The stitches in my brow itched. I didn't scratch them.
My jaw still clicked when I chewed. Didn't matter. I wasn't hungry.
I kept thinking about the moment in the cage when I stood over The Prophet—his face a ruin of blood and teeth, eyes still lit up like he'd won.
Like he'd seen something in me he'd been waiting for.
The way he laughed, mouth full of blood.
Like I'd confirmed something for him.
That's what haunted me.
Not the fight. Not the injuries. But the fact that some sick part of me wanted to do more.
Wanted to hurt him. Really hurt him.
The kind of violence that doesn't get taught in a gym. The kind that lives under the skin, curled up and quiet, until something tears it loose.
I hadn't lost control.
That's what scared me.
I had been completely aware of what I was doing.
Every knee. Every elbow. Every stomp.
I chose it. I leaned into it.
And I'd liked the way the crowd screamed for it.
They didn't see me—they saw what they wanted to be. Unstoppable. Unshakable. A god inside a steel cage.
They didn't know I'd walked out of that ring feeling less human than I'd ever felt in my life.
I looked at my hands again.
They weren't healing right. The skin kept breaking open.
Maybe that was the problem.
Some wounds don't want to close.
Chiron didn't talk much, but I could feel him watching me during drills.
Testing my limits without saying a word.
Every punch he made me throw, he watched my eyes more than my form.
He knew I was off.
And I knew he was waiting to see which way I'd crack—Into something refined and deadly…
Or something unstable and dangerous.
And then there was Ria.
I caught her looking at me a few times—more than usual.
Not like she used to.
Not with worry. Not with hope.
With fear.
That hit harder than anything in the cage.
She didn't know if I was still me.
And maybe neither did I.
Ria
Later that night
He hadn't said more than ten words all day.
Lachlan moved like a ghost through the gym—present but untouchable. Hitting pads. Running drills. Ice on his knuckles, tape wrapped loose where the skin wouldn't knit right. There was a violence under his skin that hadn't left since Grand Rapids. Like the fight never ended. Like some part of him got left in that cage and something else walked out.
I hated it.
Not him. Never him.
But the silence. The distance. The quiet way he unraveled, thread by thread, while everyone else pretended not to notice.
He thought he was hiding it. He wasn't.
I waited until the gym was mostly empty. Chiron had gone upstairs. The lights were low. The heavy bags swayed gently from earlier drills.
Lachlan was alone in the corner, stretching out his shoulder, grimacing like it hurt more than he let on.
I stepped up beside him.
He didn't look at me right away, but I saw his posture change—barely. A twitch in the jaw. A breath held too long.
"You wanna get dinner with me?" I asked.
He blinked. Finally turned his head.
"Like... food?" he said slowly.
"No," I said. "Like a date."
Silence.
He stared at me like I'd spoken in a language he hadn't heard in years.
I shrugged. Tried not to let my voice shake. "You don't have to say yes. I just… I thought maybe you'd want to do something normal. Something that doesn't involve blood or bruises or duct tape."
His throat bobbed. He still hadn't looked away.
"I can pay," I added, because humor was my fallback. "Or we split. Or you can pay if that helps you feel less weird about it."
Still nothing.
I felt my heart start to fold in on itself. "It's okay if—"
"Yes," he said.
That single word landed like a body blow.
He looked down at his hand, flexed the fingers carefully. Then up at me.
"Yeah," he said again. "I want to."
I blinked. "Really?"
"I don't want to be this all the time," he said quietly. "Not with you."
My chest ached with something almost like relief.
"Okay," I said, smiling despite myself. "Then it's a date."
He nodded, a little dazed. Like I'd just thrown him harder than anyone ever had.
"When?" he asked.
"Tomorrow night."
His lips twitched like he almost smiled. Almost.
"I'll clean up," he said.
"You better. You owe me at least one night where you don't smell like tiger balm and regret."
And that—finally—got a real laugh out of him. Quiet. Rough. But real.
He looked at me like I was still something good. Something soft he hadn't ruined yet.
And for the first time in weeks, I saw him blink out of the haze.
Just for a second.
But it was enough.
The date.
He showed up early.
I should've known he would. Lachlan didn't do late. Didn't do casual, either—not when it came to anything that meant something. And I was starting to realize this did.
I spotted him outside the restaurant, standing stiff near the door like he wasn't sure he belonged there. Black jeans. Clean shirt. Hair still damp from a shower. His hands jammed in his pockets like he didn't trust them. Like he didn't know what to do with himself without tape or blood on his knuckles.
He looked good. Better than I'd ever seen him outside the gym. But there was still that shadow in his eyes—like he was waiting for a punch.
I walked up slow, so he'd see me coming.
"You clean up nice," I said, smiling as I stopped in front of him.
His eyes dragged over me—slow, careful. I'd swapped sweats for a dress. Nothing fancy. Just enough to be something else. Something different.
He stared like he couldn't quite compute it.
"You look..." His voice was rough. "Really good."
"Yeah?"
He nodded. "I feel underdressed."
"You are," I teased. "But I'll allow it."
That got a ghost of a smile. I took it.
We went inside. Small place. Quiet. Dim lights and warm wood and soft music playing low enough you could forget it was there. I picked it because it wasn't flashy. No crowds. No noise. Just space to breathe.
We got a booth in the back. He took the side facing the door—I let him have it without saying anything.
He kept scanning the room every few minutes. Not paranoid. Just... aware. Always.
Old habits. Scars you can't see.
"I haven't done this in a long time," he said after we ordered.
"Gone on a date?"
He nodded. "This kind of date."
"What other kinds are there?"
"The ones where you both know it's not gonna mean anything," he said simply.
I looked at him over the rim of my glass. "And this one does?"
He met my eyes, and for once, didn't flinch.
"Yeah."
That silence after almost felt holy. Like something delicate passed between us and neither of us wanted to break it.
"So," I said, shifting gears. "Tell me something I don't know about you."
He raised a brow. "Like what?"
"Anything. Not fight-related."
He leaned back, eyes narrowed like he was digging through a mental drawer full of old files.
"I like thunderstorms," he said. "The kind that shake the windows."
I blinked. "Really?"
He nodded. "Used to sit on the porch with my mother and count the seconds between lightning and thunder."
I didn't expect that. It cracked something open.
"You guys were close?"
"Yeah."
"What happened?"
"My dad and brother got to her."
"I'm sorry."
He shrugged, but there was a tightness in his jaw. "It was a long time ago."
The server brought our food. We ate in stretches of silence, but it didn't feel heavy. Not like the silences in the gym. This one had room to breathe. Room to mean something.
Halfway through, he looked up, fork halfway to his mouth.
"You ever think about leaving it?" he asked. "The gym. The fights. All of it?"
I paused. "Sometimes."
"But you don't."
"I've got reasons to stay."
He looked at me long enough for the words to settle.
"Yeah," he said. "Me too."
We left the restaurant just after ten. The streets were quiet. The sky heavy with clouds.
I walked beside him, close enough our arms brushed. He didn't move away.
"I had a good time," I said as we reached my car.
He looked at me like he didn't know how to say the right thing, but wanted to try anyway.
"I don't really know how to do this," he admitted.
"You don't have to," I said. "You're already here."
Then I leaned in and kissed him.
He stiffened for half a second—surprised—but then he kissed me back. One hand on my waist, the other barely touching my cheek like I'd disappear if he wasn't careful.
When we pulled back, he looked a little dazed. Soft around the edges.
"I could get used to that," he murmured.
"Good," I said. "Because I'm not going anywhere."