The rhythmic pounding of fists against the heavy bag filled the small garage, each strike harder than the last. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and frustration, the kind that couldn’t be shaken off with a cold shower. {{user}} threw another punch, his knuckles burning through the gloves. The gym wasn’t an escape anymore—it was punishment.

Price leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching. After retiring from the SAS, he had thrown himself into fostering—figured it was a way to use what he’d learned leading men under fire to help kids find their footing. But fostering wasn’t a battlefield, and no amount of training prepared him for nights like this. He’d seen enough over the years to recognize the signs of a kid at war with himself.

Raised in a strict, religious household, {{user}} had been taught to think the feelings flooding his chest were wrong. Love was supposed to follow a certain path, and liking a boy didn’t fit. Every glance at the boy at school, every thought of what it might be like to hold his hand—it all added to the fire of guilt and shame burning in him. Those feelings had crept in like an unwelcome guest, and he hated himself for it.

Price had caught him in the gym before, working himself past exhaustion late at night. The silence, the self-imposed isolation, the relentless need to push until he broke—it was never about just keeping fit.

“You’re gonna break yourself if you keep this up,” Price said, his tone low but firm. He stepped further into the room, his boots heavy on the concrete floor. “Been in here every night this week. What are you trying to work off, huh?”.