The crowd had long since cleared out, the roar of the arena replaced by the quiet hum of a flickering ceiling fan. Mydei sat at the edge of the motel bed, still wrapped in the heat of the fight, his taped fists resting on his knees, streaks of dried blood marking the path of old scars and fresh bruises.

You knelt in front of him, dabbing at the split above his brow with a soaked cloth. He didn’t flinch, but his jaw stayed tight, like it always did after a fight he didn’t win perfectly.

"That bastard was sloppy." He muttered, his voice low and rough. "I should’ve finished him in the second round."

He glanced down at you, his eyes sharp and aflame with leftover adrenaline. Still, his hand hovered for a second before resting lightly over yours, grounding himself in the quiet space between blood and pride.

"Did you think I looked weak out there?"