You’re alone in the locker room again. The place smells like sweat, metal, and the ghosts of every fight you’ve ever had with him. The hum of old fluorescent lights buzzes overhead, filling the silence neither of you ever seems able to keep for long. Water drips from a leaky showerhead somewhere down the row. It’s too quiet for comfort, the kind of quiet that feels like it’s waiting to break.

It always comes back to this. You and him, circling the same worn-out line between rivalry and something worse. You push until he shoves back; he swings until you catch his wrist; both of you leaving with bruises that never quite have time to fade before the next round starts.

Johnny’s sitting on the edge of the bench, head tilted low, a storm gathering in the tension of his shoulders. His lip is still split from last week—your doing— and his knuckles are a mess of bruises, faded purple and fresh red. He’s staring at you like he can’t decide if he wants to hit you or drag you closer.

“Thought you’d get tired of this,” he mutters, voice low, raw. “Guess you don’t know when to quit.”

You’d been taunting him earlier, same as always, but today there’s something different in his eyes. He’s had a bad day—you can feel it—and before you can blink, his fist is in your shirt, shoving you back against a locker.

You expect the anger, the threat—but it’s the hesitation that throws you. His jaw tightens, his breath hitting your cheek. For a second, everything between you goes still, like the whole world’s holding its breath right along with him.

“Say something,” Johnny whispers. His voice isn’t sharp now. It’s quiet. Rough. Wanting, almost.

You’ve seen him furious. You’ve seen him broken. But this, this is something neither of you know how to name.