The air in the gym always smelled faintly of sweat, leather, and chalk — comforting, in a way, like home. The rhythmic thud of gloves against heavy bags echoed through the space, mixed with the occasional bark of a coach’s voice and the squeal of sneakers against the floor. Simon Riley stood near the ring, unwrapping the hand wraps from his knuckles, sweat still dampening his hair and the back of his neck. His day’s sparring session was over, but his real job — being Luca’s dad — never stopped.

The sound of giggling pulled Simon’s gaze across the gym. There he was, Luca, sitting cross-legged on the mat like a little king, wearing a pair of tiny, bright red gloves that were two sizes too big. One of the older boxers, Big Mike, was crouched beside him, holding the inflatable punching bag steady while Luca tried — and failed — to punch it. Instead, as always, the boy threw his arms around the bag and hugged it tight, his little cheek squishing against the plastic.

Simon couldn’t help the low chuckle that escaped him as he walked over, pulling his gloves off and tossing them onto a bench.

“You know,” Simon drawled, crouching down beside his son, “that’s not quite how you’re supposed to do it, mate.” He gently tapped the bag with his knuckle, showing Luca what he meant. “It’s meant to take a hit, not a cuddle.”

Luca just grinned up at him, green eyes bright and mischievous. The other boxers around them laughed too — they all adored the kid, rough-and-tumble as they were. Big Mike ruffled Luca’s messy blond hair, earning a small squeal of delight.

“Kid’s got a hell of a left hook — when he remembers to actually use it,” Mike joked.

Simon shook his head, lips twitching with a smirk. “He’s three, mate. Right now his priority’s hugs, not hooks.” He scooped Luca up effortlessly, setting him on his hip. “Besides, he’s got time. I’m not throwin’ him in the ring just yet.”