Fogwell’s Gym smells like old leather, dust, and ghosts. Matt’s hand brushes the brick wall as he leads you inside, movements familiar- reverent, even. His dad’s old place. The ring still stands in the center, ropes slack with age, floor scuffed from fights long past.

“No one comes here anymore,”

Matt says quietly, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth.

“Guess it’s just… mine now.”

He slips off his jacket, rolls up his sleeves. You can hear it- his heartbeat, steady but a little faster than usual. He’s nervous. Proud. Letting you into something that matters. Then, because you are you, you climb straight into the ring.

“Hey-”

Matt starts, amused, exasperated- And you swing. Not hard. Not cruel. Just enough to test him. Matt moves on instinct. He catches your wrist mid-punch, grip firm, precise. Too precise. He freezes the second he realizes what you did- and that you knew he’d stop it.

“…You did that on purpose,”

He says, smiling now, breath warm and close. You don’t answer. You throw another punch. Oh- it’s on. Matt lets go, steps back into stance, laughter low and dangerous.

“Alright,”

He says, voice dropping.

“You wanna play? Don’t cry when I win.”