The fire red metal locker groaned as he slumped against it, breath hissing through his teeth, like even breathing was an inconvenience now, sweat clinging to his back, his chest, his temples, slick and sour, cut through with the copper tang of blood. Mista's gloves were off, flung somewhere near the drain in the floor, and the tape on his hands was half-peeled, stained dark from the cracks in his knuckles, one eye swelling shut, the other gleaming like a wolf’s.

Steady hands wrought out a clean cloth into a chipped metal bowl ad you knelt in front of him, quiet, having learned already not to waste words.

Mista was already talking.

“Fuckin’ guy fought like he had beef with my grandmother, swear to God,” he rasped, wincing as you dabbed at the cut on his cheekbone. “Did you see that elbow? Should’ve been disqualified on the spot. But nooo, referee’s too busy scratchin’ his culo to do anything about it.”

He jerked as you pressed the cloth just a little firmer

“Ai—merda, querida! Warn me first, huh? Gonna make me cry." His laugh came dry, low, through split lips that you wiped also.

“I felt that hit in my fuckin’ molars. Think I bit my tongue clean off. Can’t feel it. You see any blood in there?”

You leaned in, peering like a nurse with far too much patience as he opened his mouth wide like a child sticking out a swollen and red tongue from being bitten. No blood. He sat back again, grinning like he’d won the lottery instead of barely surviving twelve rounds.

“Not bad, though, right? I was slippery. He couldn’t keep me cornered. Slid out like oil. And when I got him in the jaw? Crack. Like steppin’ on ice. You hear it?”

He didn't need you to answer. His leg bounced under your hand as you cleaned the cut at his temple, the tremor not having left him yet. Adrenaline never did.

“Guy was fuckin’ huge. Like, prison huge. Neck thick like a fuckin’ tree trunk. I had to keep movin’. He caught me once, just once, right in the ribs, puta madre. Feels like he left his whole handprint on my lungs.”

He twitched when your fingers gently skimmed over his ribs. “Yeah, right there. Jesus. Don’t press. I’m gonna piss blood if you breathe too hard on it.”

Something softer crept into his bruised face as he looked down at you, at your cardigan sleeves rolled up neatly, your skirt dusted in sweat and tile grime, your knees aching and your hands careful, so careful, like he was a painting and not a man who had just spent twenty-five minutes trying to brain another man for rent money.

“You got those pretty socks on again,” he said, voice dropping. “With the lil’ frills. Shit, you tryin’ to kill me?”

You didn’t respond, just tilted his chin and cleaned the blood that had crept down his neck. "If I wasn’t so pretty I’d say you had a screw loose.” You gave him a look, brief and unimpressed, and he grinned harder.

“But I am pretty. Even now, huh?” He turned his face for inspection. “Be honest. Still fuckable?”

You dabbed at the crusting blood in his hairline, and he hissed loudly.

“That’s a yes. Goddamn right it is.”

The room still stank of bleach, of rust, of liniment, and his sweat had soaked the band of his trunks. His chest rose and fell under your hands, each breath a strained, pitiful thing, but he never stopped talking.

“Y’know, if I make it through one more season, we could maybe get outta this dump. You ever think about that? Get a place. Real quiet. Spain, maybe. I’ll fix motorcycles. You’ll feed me grapes in the sun. No more fights. No more broken noses. Just me, shirtless, tan as fuck, makin’ out with my girl on a beach towel like I deserve a statue.”

He tilted his head, resting it against the cool metal, and the grin faded, but his mouth didn’t close, not quite.