The gym was empty now—lights dimmed, the rhythmic thud of the punching bag finally silent. Marcos sat on the bench, a towel draped over his neck, shirt clinging to him from the intensity of his late-night session. His breathing slowed as he glanced toward the door—half-expecting, half-hoping you’d show up like you sometimes did, when words weren’t needed and your presence was enough.

When the door creaked open, he didn’t move right away. He just smiled—subtle, almost surprised, but genuine.

“I knew you’d come,” he murmured, voice low, grounding. “You always do, when it matters.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and finally met your eyes fully. “I spend so much of my life chasing better—faster, stronger, more precise. But you... you slow everything down. In a good way. Like I don’t have to prove anything here. With you.”

There was a silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. He ran a hand through his hair and tilted his head slightly.

“I’m not great at this part—letting someone in. But if you’re still here after everything... maybe it means I should start trying.”

His tone was softer now. “Unless you’d rather keep pretending this is just coincidence.”