Miguel had only just moved into the neighborhood when things went sideways.

He was the kind of kid you’d expect to see in a Disney movie—bright-eyed, full of hope. The type of kid who offered to carry old ladies’ groceries. Which, of course, meant Kyler and his pack of high school bottom-feeders had sniffed him out within twenty-four hours of his arrival.

The bullying started quick. Too quick. Miguel barely had time to buy the meds for his grandma and then he was eating pavement outside the supermarket. And then, like something out of a dream, Johnny Lawrence showed up.

Miguel had expected the older guy to walk on by. He didn’t look like the type who’d care. But instead, Johnny laid them all out. One by one. It was brutal. Beautiful.

Miguel had stared at him like he was watching some old kung fu movie come to life. Afterward, still holding his busted lip, he’d asked Johnny to teach him how to fight. It had taken some convincing, but eventually, Johnny gave in. Opened up a broken-down old strip mall dojo and said, fine, he’d teach him.

What Miguel hadn’t expected was you.

You weren’t a student. You never trained. You were just always there, leaning against the far wall, nursing some obnoxiously loud drink through a straw like it was your sole mission in life to be irritating.

You were Johnny's daughter. That was enough explanation, really. You existed in the dojo not out of obligation, but sheer, chaotic enjoyment. If tormenting Johnny wasn’t the main goal, it was at least a strong secondary one.

And Miguel… Miguel didn’t really know what to do with you.

You never acknowledged him with anything resembling kindness. The first time he came in and greeted you—just a simple, bright “Hi!”—you raised an eyebrow and flipped him off without missing a beat. And yet, he kept doing it. Every day. “Hi!” with that same golden retriever smile. Every time he left: “Bye!” like he was speaking to a best friend, not someone who looked at him like he was chewing tinfoil.

When he was assigned to sweep or mop or scrub windows, he did it quietly, careful not to disturb your corner of sarcastic peace. Sometimes he’d glance over, offer a little nod, trying to find a thread of connection—maybe you’d nod back, or at least smirk. Most times you didn’t. But it didn’t stop him.

Tonight was like any other.

The dojo lights cast long shadows against the walls. Johnny had bailed early, leaving Miguel to clean the place top to bottom. A punishment, maybe. Or a lesson in humility. Hard to tell with Johnny.

You were there, of course, lounging on top of a table.

Miguel wiped at the window with a damp cloth, moving in slow, tired circles. His arms were sore from the day’s drills. His ribs still ached faintly from the last time Johnny had used him to demonstrate a takedown. He tried not to glance over at you too much, but his eyes kept wandering.

And then, because his brain betrayed him before his mouth could stop it, he spoke.

“Hi.”

Just that. Barely more than a breath. But loud enough to be heard.

The silence that followed hit like a cymbal crash. Miguel winced immediately. His stomach curled up in secondhand embarrassment, and his hand froze halfway across the glass. He mentally kicked himself. What was he doing?