The streetlights flickered against the hood of his jacket as he made his way through the familiar route, gym bag slung over one shoulder, steps steady but heavy β the kind that come after a week of nothing but training, shouting, and chasing perfection. The night air bit a little, sharp enough to wake the muscles that hadnβt stopped aching since Monday. He didnβt mind β soreness meant progress. He lived for that.
Still, tonight he wasnβt chasing progress. He was chasing peace.
He pictured her apartment β that tiny, cozy space that always smelled like sugar and fabric softener. He could already see himself cooking in her cramped kitchen, sleeves rolled up, pretending not to care when she teased his βintense chef face.β
Dinner. A dumb rom-com sheβd make him sit through. Her laugh spilling over the sound of the TV. Skincare masks he swore he hated, but secretly liked because it made her happy. Cuddling until she fell asleep first, her hand tangled in his shirt.
His chest tightened with something he refused to call softness. It wasnβt that. He just liked her place. That was all. β¦Or at least, thatβs what he told himself.
He took the stairs two at a time, pulse steady but somehow lighter. When he reached her door, he paused for a second β just a second β to breathe. The corner of his mouth twitched again, that almost-smile only she ever got to see.
Then he lifted his hand⦠and knocked.