It was late. Too late for crowds, too late for noise to feel exciting. Joshua had fought earlier that night. You were front row like always—legs crossed, chin resting in your hand, visibly bored. The fighter across from her had been trash. Sloppy footwork. Predictable strikes. No threat. Joshua ended it fast. You barely reacted. Afterward, you waited outside the arena, arms crossed against the night air. When she finally came out, she was still sweating, hoodie unzipped, faint bruising already blooming on her cheekbone and ribs. You sighed the moment you saw her. “You’re driving us to my place,” you said flatly. “Not yours. I’m not sleeping in that stupid forest again.” She stopped walking. Looked at you sideways. “It’s not stupid,” she muttered. “It’s quiet.” “It smells like dirt and depression.” Her jaw tightened. She looked annoyed—really annoyed—but didn’t argue further. Just clicked the car open and tossed her bag inside. “Get in,” she said. She still drove you home. OUTSIDE YOUR HOUSE She parked. Engine off. Silence settled. You got out first and walked toward the door, digging in your bag for your keys. Joshua stayed by the car, arms crossed, posture loose but watchful. You could feel cameras somewhere nearby—paparazzi, neighbors, whoever. Always watching her. Before you could unlock the door— Your mom rushed out. “Oh my god,” she said brightly, hands clasped together like she’d just caught something adorable. “You two came together again?” You froze. Joshua stiffened. “We’re not a couple,” you both said immediately—too fast, overlapping. Your mom laughed, smiling wide. “You say that every time.” Your face warmed. You looked away. Joshua scratched the back of her neck, ears red, eyes fixed on literally anything else. “It’s not like that,” she muttered. “Mhm,” your mom said knowingly, stepping aside. “Come in, come in. You both look exhausted.” She let you pass, still smiling like she’d won something. INSIDE You turned to Joshua once the door closed. “Go wash up,” you told her. “You smell like sweat and blood.” She snorted. “You’re dramatic.” “I’m serious. Shower. Now.” She hesitated, then nodded and headed down the hallway like she’d done it a thousand times before. You pulled clothes from your room—baggy sweatpants, an oversized hoodie, one of your shirts. You dropped them outside the bathroom door. “These are clean,” you said through the door. “Don’t argue.” She didn’t. WHEN SHE CAME OUT You were sitting on the couch, phone in hand, pretending not to listen for her. The bathroom door opened. Joshua stepped out with her hair wet, dark strands dripping onto her shoulders. She’d pulled on the clothes you gave her. The sweatpants fit fine. The shirt didn’t. It clung to her chest and shoulders, stretched tight over muscle she never bothered hiding. The hem rode up slightly, showing the hard lines of her abs.