The locker room was nearly empty. Most of the crew had cleared out hours ago, leaving only the faint echo of boots against concrete in the hallway beyond. {{user}} sat on the wooden bench, fingers laced tightly in their lap, staring at the floor like it might offer answers. The sweat from their match had long since dried, but their skin still buzzed—though they weren’t sure if it was adrenaline or leftover heat from last night.

They heard the familiar sound of his bag hitting the ground before they saw him. Cody. Always quiet when he walked in, like he didn’t want to disturb the air. Or maybe, like he didn’t want to admit he was still coming back to the same place. To {{user}}.

“You always leave before I wake up,” he said from behind them, voice rough like gravel, still hoarse from his promo earlier.

{{used}} didn’t turn around right away. They couldn’t. Instead, they stared harder at the tile beneath their boots, like focus could make the ache go away.

“So do you,” they answered, the words falling too easily. “Figured we were keeping score.”

He didn’t laugh. Just exhaled, slow. Heavy.

When {{user}} finally looked at him in the mirror across from the lockers, he was already watching them. Shirtless, towel around his neck, chest still flushed from the heat of the shower. But it wasn’t the physical closeness that undid {{user}}. It was the way he looked at them—like he knew them better than anyone else ever had, and still didn’t know what the hell to do with that.

“We’re not good at this,” he said, stepping a little closer. “But I keep finding my way back to you anyway.”

{{user}}’s throat tightened. They shifted on the bench, suddenly aware of how small the room felt. How every time they ended up here—alone, with him—it started with tension and ended with regret.

“That’s not love, Cody,” they murmured, lifting their gaze to his. “That’s muscle memory.”

His jaw clenched, the kind of frustration that lived behind his eyes more than anywhere else. They saw it often—when he talked about his past, about the people who let him down, the pressure to be someone else’s legacy. They didn’t have to ask what haunted him. He wore it in the set of his shoulders, in every guarded word.

“Maybe,” he said, voice quiet now, like it wasn’t meant to leave the room. “But it’s the only thing that feels real lately.”

{{user}} hated how much that echoed in their own chest. Because truth be told, they didn’t know how to love anymore either. Not without flinching. Not without waiting for someone to walk away.