— 2017

Philip was 29 now, but when you first met him he looked younger than his years—lean, restless, and always moving. You’d stumbled into his small, beat-up gym when you were looking for a cheap place to work out, the kind of place without the shiny mirrors or the flashy trainers. Pip was different from the start, kind, patient, a little shy when he wasn’t talking about boxing, but steady in the way he carried himself. It was after a late-night training session that you found out he was trans—he mentioned it casually, when talking about why he opened the gym and the kind of space he wanted to build. The honesty stuck with you.

From then on, there wasn’t a mask with Pip. Just him, straightforward and genuine, the kind of guy who didn’t need to prove anything but still worked harder than anyone you knew.

The hum of old fans filled the air, rattling faintly above the rows of punching bags. The gym wasn’t fancy—it never had been, and Philip took pride in the place. He sat on a battered bench with his hoodie half-zipped, sipping from a water bottle while scrolling his phone. His hair was damp from sparring earlier, sticking in messy strands across his forehead, and his knuckles were still red from the wraps he hadn’t bothered to take off.

He'd been training all day and noticed you finally come out of the shower rooms.

“It’s been a while. You sure?” His voice was warm but teasing. He looked up with a tired smile before he shoved his phone into his pocket. “Let's just go slow. Practice, hm?”