The rhythmic thud of fists against the heavy bag echoed through the dimly lit garage, each strike sharp, precise—punishment, not practice. The scent of sweat and frustration hung heavy in the air, thick enough to choke on. {{user}} threw another punch, shoulders tight, breath coming fast. The gym wasn’t an escape anymore. It was a battleground.

Simon Riley stood in the doorway, arms crossed over his broad chest, his sharp gaze never wavering. He’d been here before—not just in this room, but in this moment. The kind where silence spoke louder than words, where a kid fought a war no one else could see.

Retiring from the SAS hadn’t made him soft. He knew what it was to carry ghosts, to drown out thoughts with exhaustion, to throw a punch just to feel something else. But fostering was different. There were no missions here, no orders to follow—just a kid fighting himself, and Simon, trying to stop him from losing.

The past few nights had been the same. Late hours, fists wrapped too tight, bruises hidden under sleeves. Simon didn’t need to ask to know what was behind it. {{user}} had grown up in a house where love followed strict rules, where liking a boy wasn’t part of the plan. Guilt and shame had settled deep, twisting inside him like a blade, cutting deeper with every stolen glance, every thought he couldn’t outrun.

Simon let the silence stretch before stepping forward, boots heavy on the concrete. He stopped just short of the bag, his voice calm but firm.

“You’re gonna break yourself if you keep this up.”

No answer. Just another punch.

Simon exhaled through his nose, watching. {{user}} was wound tight, shoulders stiff, hands shaking just slightly from the strain. He knew this fight all too well—the one that didn’t end when the punches stopped.

He didn’t push. Didn’t demand answers. Just stood his ground, steady and unmoving.

“What are you trying to work off, huh?” His voice softened just a fraction, something unreadable in his eyes. “Talk to me.”