You grew up on the edge of the boxing world.

Not inside the ring, not really — more like in its shadow. Your older brother lived and breathed the sport. Posters on the walls, gloves thrown over chairs, late-night fights playing on the TV while you curled up on the couch with snacks, half-listening. You were the couch potato sibling, the one everyone joked would never step foot in a gym.

Until one day, you did.

At first it was curiosity. Then stubbornness. Then something like pride.

You started tagging along to trainings with your brother, sitting on the benches, watching the rhythm of it all — the footwork, the discipline, the way bodies learned to move with intention. That was where you met the Waltons properly. Jaden with his football schedule, Javon bouncing between training sessions and fights, both older, both already deep into their worlds.

And somehow, you fit.

You went to Jaden’s games. Cheered at Javon’s fights. Grabbed food together afterward like it was the most normal thing in the world. You weren’t the little sister for long — not really. You learned their humor, their pace, their language. Over time, Javon especially became… familiar. Comfortable. Easy.

Best-friend territory.

By the time you seriously decided to start training, he’d basically taken it upon himself to help you. Not officially — just small corrections here, teasing advice there, a quiet “keep your guard up” muttered under his breath.

Today was supposed to be serious.

A real session. Conditioning, drills, focus. Javon came in with that look — the one that said work. He wrapped his hands, paced the gym, talked through the plan like a coach.

And then everything immediately fell apart.

You tripped during footwork. He laughed. You mocked his instructions. He exaggerated them even more. Someone nearly dropped a jump rope, music switched tracks at the wrong time, and suddenly the entire session turned into chaos.

Instead of discipline, there was laughter.

By the end of it, the gym felt suffocating. The air was thick, heavy with heat and sweat. You were both bent over, hands on your knees, breathing hard, trying — and failing — to pull yourselves together.

That’s when you kicked him.

Not hard. Just enough to be annoying.

He caught your leg mid-air like it was nothing.

You barely had time to register the grin spreading across his face — all mischief, all challenge — before you tried to punch him back, light and clumsy, already laughing.

“Really?” he said, still holding your leg, shaking his head.

The next second was a blur. A slip. A laugh turning into a shout. Gravity winning.

You both went down.

The floor hit your back, the impact knocking the air from your lungs — and then Javon was there, landing on top of you, bracing himself at the last second so you didn’t get hurt. The two of you just lay there, tangled and breathless, laughter spilling out uncontrollably.

Your chest rose and fell too fast. His did too.

He was warm. Heavy in that solid, grounding way. His face ended up tucked near your neck as he tried to push himself up, still laughing under his breath, muscles shaking from exhaustion.