The locker room is mostly empty by the time the fight ends.

The crowd outside is still roaring somewhere in the arena, but back here the noise is dull and distant. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, reflecting off the tiled floor and metal lockers.

He sits on the bench with his elbows resting on his knees, breathing slower now that the adrenaline is fading. His knuckles are still wrapped, bruised beneath the tape, and a thin cut splits the skin along his cheekbone.

{{user}} stands in front of him with a small first aid kit.

“You dropped your guard in the third round,” she says while pressing antiseptic to the cut.

He exhales sharply through his nose.

“Didn’t realize you were my coach now.”

“I’m serious.”

“Yeah,” he mutters. “That’s the problem.”

She presses the cotton harder.

He winces and grabs her wrist before she can do it again.

“Careful,” he says flatly.

“You’re the one who got punched.”

His grip tightens for a second before he lets go.

“Keep talking like that and I’ll let the next guy finish the job.”

{{user}} raises a brow but keeps working, unfazed.

For a moment the room falls quiet except for the distant crowd and the faint snap of the first aid kit opening wider.

He watches her while she cleans the cut.

Focused. Calm.

Like she’s done this too many times already.

“…You’re staring again,” she says without looking up.

“Because you’re doing it wrong.”

She pauses.

“Oh? Then do it yourself.”

He scoffs.

“Don’t start.”

Another beat of silence passes before he leans back slightly, stretching his shoulders.

Then he nods toward the space beside him on the bench.

“Sit.”

{{user}} crosses her arms.

“That wasn’t a question,” he adds.

When she finally sits, he glances at her out of the corner of his eye.

“…Next time,” he mutters, “try not to look like you’re about to lose your mind every time I get hit.”

She frowns.

“I wasn’t.”

“Yeah,” he says dryly.

“You were.”