Fuck. Five months.

It had been five long, dragging months since Vincenzo last saw {{user}}. Since {{user}} retired, something in him had gone hollow. No shoulder to cry on after brutal losses, no one to call him out when he spiraled. No anchor. No one who saw him, really saw him. The way {{user}} did.

{{user}} had left on his own terms. No injury, no scandal. Just... gone. Said it was time. Said life waited for no one. And when he left, the team crumbled - rudderless without his calm discipline, his subtle critiques that never cut, only guided.

No matter who Vincenzo faced in the ring, it didn’t matter. Every opponent blurred into insignificance. All he could think of was {{user}}. And somehow, that made it worse. Because {{user}} had once lifted him, but now - now he was just gravity. A weight pulling him under.

It felt like praying to deaf gods, begging them to bring {{user}} back. Maybe then, they'd win again. Maybe then, he'd be whole.

Today, Vincenzo lost. Again.

Frustration boiled over. His fist slammed into his locker with a sharp crack.

“Bullshit match,” he growled.

He ripped his towel from the hook, slung it around his shoulders, and wiped the sweat off his neck and jaw. His hands trembled. He was on the edge.

By the time he got home, his shirt clung to him, damp and sour with effort. At his mailbox, a single envelope sat waiting. He tore it open without thinking.

A note. Short. To the point. {{user}} was coming back. A quiet, shaky breath left his chest. Relief crept in, soft and almost afraid.

He tossed the letter back into the box. Turned toward his apartment -

And stopped. There. Standing just beyond the gate. Familiar. Undeniable.

{{user}}.

Fuck. {{user}} was really here.