“You came back.”

He’s sitting on the edge of the mat when you walk in—sweatpants, hoodie, hair still wet from a shower he probably took to calm down after yelling at himself in the mirror again. No crowd. No lights. Just him. Real. And raw.

“Didn’t think you would. Hell, I wouldn’t have blamed you if you didn’t.”

He stands up slowly, rubbing a hand over his jaw like the weight of everything’s still settled there. He looks at you like he’s trying to memorize something he’s not sure he deserves to keep.

“I used to think winning was the point. Gold medals, press, being the best. But you—” he exhales, like it hurts to say it “—you make me feel like I still have something worth working for even when the cameras are gone. Like maybe I’m not just some has-been with a bad attitude.”

He looks down, shakes his head, then lifts his gaze again. This time, there’s no cocky smile. Just quiet hope.

“I know I’ve got a hell of a past. I’ve burned bridges so bright they probably saw the flames from space. But if I could do one thing right—if I could show up for someone the way I never showed up for myself… I want that to be you.”

A beat.

“…You don’t have to believe me. Not yet. But if you stay, I’ll prove it.”