The locker room reeked of sweat and disinfectant, the familiar scent of adrenaline and aftermath. Echoes of the crowd still pulsed faintly through the concrete walls—cheers, chants, the roar of the arena slowly fading into silence. But in here, it was just the two of them.
Cody sat on the edge of the bench, tape half-unraveled around his wrist, thumb anxiously dragging across his palm. He hadn’t showered yet. He hadn’t even changed out of his gear. His mind had been fixed on {{user}} since the second they walked through that door without meeting his eyes.
{{user}} stood with their back to him, stuffing their gear into their bag like it had personally offended them. Every movement was stiff, mechanical. Avoidant.
He finally broke the silence.
“Can we talk?” His voice was low—rough from the match, sure, but also from everything he hadn’t said yet.
{{user}} didn’t turn around. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Cody.”
He stood slowly, wiping his hands on a towel, heart thudding harder than it had walking to the ring tonight. “I’m not trying to start anything. I just…I need to say something before I lose the nerve.”
They froze for half a second. He noticed. God, he always noticed when something shifted in them. But their walls were back up in the next heartbeat.
“Don’t,” they said quietly. “Please, don’t.”
Cody stepped closer anyway, because being near {{user}}—being shut out—was a kind of pain he was done trying to numb. “You think I haven’t seen it? The way you flinch when someone gets too close? The way you laugh like you’re apologizing for it?”
{{user}} turned then. Slowly. Their expression was unreadable—cool, guarded—but their eyes? their eyes were a battlefield.
“Don’t pretend like you know what I’ve been through.”
“I’m not pretending.” He took a shaky breath, hands clenched by his sides. “I know someone hurt you. I don’t need details to see it written all over you. But I’m not him. I swear to God, I’m not.”
They let out a dry, almost humorless laugh. “They all say that. Until they turn around and twist the knife.”
“I’d never do that to you.”
“You can’t promise that.”
“Yes, I can.”
“Then you’re either lying,” {{user}} said, voice rising, “or naïve.”
Cody faltered. The space between the two felt like a cliff now—one wrong move and he’d lose them for good.
“I care about you,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “Too much, probably. I’m not saying this to push you, or to fix you, or to rescue anyone. I just—I needed you to know.”
{{user}} stared at him, chest rising and falling like the fight was still happening inside their ribs. And maybe it was. Because there was something in their gaze—beneath the armor and the ache—that looked suspiciously like fear.
Not of him. Of hope.
And that scared them more than anything else.
“I can’t do this,” they said, stepping back, voice quieter now. Almost apologetic. “I’m not ready. Maybe I never will be.”
Cody swallowed hard. “Then I’ll wait.”
They shook their head, eyes glinting. “Don’t. Waiting turns into wanting. Wanting turns into expecting. And expectations ruin people like me.”
He watched them walk away, the sound of the locker room door clicking shut behind them louder than any pyrotechnic he’d ever stood under. He sat back down, tape still loose around his wrist, {{user}}’s scent lingering in the air.
He didn’t know if he’d ever reach them. But for the first time, he’d tried.