Ria
I wasn't supposed to be there.
The gym didn't open for another hour, and I wasn't staff. I didn't fight. Didn't train. Didn't belong, not really.
But I had a key.
Well a copy. I'd made one when Chiron would give me his key to drop off supplies, of course I didn't tell him. So now here I was, sitting on the bottom row of the bleachers in the back corner of the gym, the lights still half-off, pretending like I had some reason to be here.
Maybe I was hoping he wouldn't notice me.
Maybe I was hoping he would.
Lachlan was in the ring, barefoot and shirtless, tape around his wrists, sweat slicking down his back like he'd been at it for hours already. Probably had. He lived in the old office above the gym—everyone knew that. No lease. No roommates. Just a mattress on the floor and a duffel full of his life in the corner.
And for reasons I couldn't explain—at least not out loud—I couldn't stop thinking about him.
It started with his eyes. Everyone always said they were cold, unreadable. But they weren't. Not if you really looked. They were tired. Tired in a way that made me want to sit beside him in silence and not ask anything, not expect anything—just be there.
Then came the way he moved—like every step was calculated, like his body was a weapon he'd spent years trying to keep from going off.
And then last night happened.
I hadn't meant to walk in on him like that. I really had left my bag in the locker room. But I saw him there, sitting with his head down, his voice rough and low, saying things I never expected to hear from him.
"I'm sorry." "I'm trying."
Words that shouldn't have been meant for me. But maybe they were.
Now he was here again, throwing punches into the bag like it had done something personal, the air around him vibrating with every hit. I watched, clutching my thermos like it might keep my hands from shaking.
He hadn't seen me yet.
Or maybe he had, and he just didn't care.
I told myself that was fine. That I was just curious. That this wasn't anything. But I'd been lying to myself for weeks. Maybe months. Lachlan wasn't just some guy at the gym.
He was the guy. The one who made silence feel like gravity, who carried pain like it was sewn into his skin, who made my chest ache in ways I didn't even understand.
And I wanted something I had no right wanting.
Not a relationship. Not even a conversation.
I just wanted him to see me. Not glance at me in passing. Not nod on his way out of the ring. I wanted him to really see me.
"Thought you were a ghost."
His voice cracked the quiet like thunder.
I jumped. Looked up. He was at the edge of the ring now, leaning against the ropes, eyes on me.
I swallowed. "Didn't mean to interrupt."
"You didn't."
His voice was rougher than usual. Sleep? Or maybe he hadn't spoken since last night.
"You're early," he said.
"So are you."
His mouth tugged into something that wasn't quite a smile. "I live here."
Right. Dumb reply. I knew that.
I looked down at my hands, suddenly too aware of everything—my messy ponytail, the coffee stain on my hoodie, the way my heart wouldn't slow down.
"You okay?" he asked.
That caught me off guard.
I blinked. "What?"
"You're shaking."
I was. Just a little. I tightened my grip on the thermos like it could hide that.
"I'm fine."
He nodded once, slow. "Okay."
But he didn't look away.
He just stood there, watching me like he was trying to solve a puzzle without all the pieces.
"You waiting for someone?" he asked.
"No."
"Training?"
I let out a breath that was almost a laugh. "You've seen me hit a bag. That's a mercy I won't inflict on anyone again."
That got something—his jaw twitched, like he was trying not to smile. I hated how good that felt.
"So why're you here?"
I hesitated. Thought about lying. About saying I left something again, or I was just passing through, or—
"I don't know," I said quietly.
He tilted his head, studying me in that way that made me want to either run or spill every secret I'd ever kept.
But all he said was: "You hungry?"
I blinked again. "What?"
"I've got instant noodles upstairs. They're terrible. But I've got two."
My breath caught.
This wasn't a date. It wasn't anything. But it was something.
A crack. A door left slightly open.
And I—obsessed, half-broken, sleep-deprived me—walked right through it.
"Yeah," I said. "Okay."
He nodded once, then turned and headed up the stairs.
I followed.
The stairs creaked under my steps.
I followed him without a word, clutching my thermos like it was a lifeline, the scent of sweat and canvas still clinging to the air below. Up here, it was different. Quieter. Warmer. The kind of silence you didn't get downstairs—not filled with the sounds of fists and grunts and gloves slapping leather. Just the soft scrape of Lachlan's bare feet and the occasional hum of an ancient space heater struggling against the morning chill.
He didn't look back to check if I was behind him.
He didn't need to.
The door to his space was slightly ajar. He nudged it open with his shoulder, stepped inside, and left it open for me like it wasn't a big deal. But it was. This was his world. No one came up here. Not Chiron. Not the other fighters. I'd only ever heard rumors about what it looked like.
And now I was standing in it.
The room was small. Barely enough space to walk from one wall to the other without brushing something—a crate full of hand wraps, a secondhand weight bench, a worn-out punching bag hanging from a ceiling hook with duct tape reinforcing the straps. His mattress was on the floor, covered in mismatched blankets and a single pillow. There was a low shelf with a kettle, a cracked mug, and a stack of instant noodle packs that looked like they'd been bought in bulk six months ago.
It wasn't messy, just… lived in.
Functional. Like everything had a purpose. No decoration. No softness.
Except, maybe, the small framed photo on the window ledge. A younger Lachlan—innocent, but serious—beside a woman with a gentle face and eyes just like his. I didn't ask. I wouldn't. But something about the way the frame was turned slightly inward told me that photo got looked at more than it should.
"You want beef or… spicy beef?" he asked from the corner, crouching by the kettle.
I smiled without meaning to. "Wow, such variety."
He glanced up, smirked, then dropped both packets onto the counter.
"I like to keep things interesting," he said dryly.
I stepped a little farther into the room, careful not to touch anything, like I might knock something loose. My eyes kept drifting to his back as he crouched over the kettle—broad, tense, a faint bruise forming under his shoulder blade from training, maybe. Or from something else. I didn't ask.
"You don't usually talk like that," I said quietly. "All sarcastic and… human."
He gave a low chuckle, not turning around. "You don't usually show up before sunrise."
Touché.
I didn't know what I was doing here. Not really. I'd built this idea of him in my head—Lachlan the silent storm, the lone wolf with scarred knuckles and too much weight on his shoulders. I watched him from across the gym, made up stories about why he lived like this, why he never let anyone close.
But this… this was different.
He handed me a cup a few minutes later. Plastic. Hot. Smelled like salt and MSG and the kind of comfort I hadn't realized I was starving for.
"Thanks," I said, fingers brushing his for half a second too long as I took it.
He didn't flinch. Didn't pull back. Just sat down against the wall, legs stretched out, and gestured for me to do the same.
So I did.
We sat in silence for a while, steam curling from the cups between us. My knees were almost touching his. Close enough to feel the heat off his skin. Close enough to imagine what it might feel like to lean in just a little more. I wouldn't. I couldn't. But the want sat heavy in my chest, breathing with me.
"You said some stuff last night," I murmured.
He nodded, still looking down at his noodles.
"You meant it?"
He was quiet for a long moment. Then: "I don't say things I don't mean."
I looked at him then. Really looked.
Not just the way he looked in a fight. Not the way his jaw clenched when someone got too close. But the lines around his eyes. The weight in his shoulders. The way he kept glancing at me from the corner of his vision like he was still deciding if he'd made a mistake inviting me up here.
"I think about you," I said, soft. "Too much."
He didn't move. Didn't speak. But his eyes found mine then. And they stayed there.
"You don't have to say anything," I added quickly, heart kicking. "I just… needed you to know."
He stared at me for a beat longer, then looked away. Exhaled slow.
"I'm not good at this," he said.
"I know."
"I don't know what you want from me."
"I don't want anything," I said. "Except maybe… to be near you. Sometimes."
That seemed to hit something. His jaw tightened. But not in anger. In something quieter. Maybe even fear.
He nodded once. Then said, so soft I almost missed it:
"Okay."
And it wasn't a promise. It wasn't a declaration.
But it was something. A start. A door cracked open just enough to let me step through.
And I did