You’d come to the USA thinking the hardest part would be the language.

Turns out, it was the food.

Back home, you walked everywhere. Ate lighter. Moved without thinking about it. In America, everything was bigger — portions, cars, distances — and without even noticing, your body softened a little. Not in a bad way. Just… unfamiliar. Your jeans fit differently. Your reflection felt slightly off, like a version of you adjusted for a new climate.

So you decided to move again.

Your host mom meant well. She always did. When she mentioned that one of her coworkers had a son who boxed — seriously boxed — and that his mom thought you could tag along to training, it sounded like fate dressed up as coincidence.

That’s how you met Javon.

You expected someone intimidating. Loud. Maybe cocky.

Instead, he smiled at you like it was the most normal thing in the world that a European exchange student had wandered into his gym. You were sixteen, he was nineteen, and the age difference barely registered — not in that space. Not with the way he spoke to you. Calm. Focused. Encouraging.

He never pushed too hard.

“Again,” he’d say, gentle but firm. “Breathe first.” “Good. That’s better.”

He trained you a few times a week. Drove you home when your host parents worked late. Explained footwork like it was a language you already half-knew. Treated you like someone worth investing time in — like a responsibility he took seriously.

Almost like a younger sister.

Almost.

Through him, the world widened. His twin brother, loud and charming. His younger brother, always watching. His sister, sharp and confident, her girlfriend just as intense — both boxers, both terrifying in the best way. You slid into their orbit easily, learning how gyms smelled, how gloves felt after hours of use, how discipline shaped people from the inside out.

Months passed faster than they should’ve.

Now there was only one left.

One month until the exchange ended. One month until “back home” stopped being theoretical and became real again. It had been nearly a year since the first time you stepped into this gym, awkward and nervous and unsure.

Today felt different.

Training was quieter. Gym less crowded. The late afternoon light slanted through the high windows, turning dust into gold. You were working combinations when Javon stepped closer than usual, his voice dropping instinctively, like the gym itself required respect.

“No— here,” he said, reaching out.

He adjusted your stance with careful hands, guiding your shoulders, tapping your elbow into place. His touch was professional, precise — but you were suddenly very aware of it. Of how close he was. Of how easily his presence filled the space around you.

“You’re thinking too much,” he murmured. “Trust your body.”

When you threw the punch again, it landed cleaner. Stronger. He nodded, pride flashing across his face before he caught it, like he didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.