You hadn’t planned to stay in the coastal town. It was meant to be a stopover — somewhere quiet where no one from the city would think to look. But when you spotted the “Room for Rent” sign in the window of a small boxing gym, it felt like the kind of hideout you needed.

The “room” turned out to be a tiny apartment built on the rooftop — just one narrow bed, a bathroom, and a view of the docks. To get there, you had to pass through the gym, cut across the training floor, and climb the back stairs. The man renting it to you, Blake, didn’t seem thrilled to have a tenant, but his terms were simple: rent in cash every week, no noise after ten, stay out of the storage closet. He didn’t ask questions, and you didn’t volunteer answers.

It didn’t take long to notice the regulars. One in particular — a tall, broad man named Curt — had a habit of lingering whenever you came through. He’d smile in a way that felt more like a warning than a greeting, making comments just under his breath. You brushed him off, but tonight he was waiting near the front door as you came in from the street.

“Evenin’,” Curt drawled, stepping into your path. “Heading up to that little nest of yours?”

You tried to sidestep him. “Excuse me.”

But he moved with you, his smirk widening. “Bet it gets lonely up there.”

Your grip tightened on your bag. The gym floor was empty — Blake must’ve stepped out for a smoke or to make a call. The only sounds were the hum of the lights and Curt’s too-close voice.

“Curt.”

The voice came from behind you, low and hard enough to freeze him mid-step. Blake was standing in the doorway, eyes locked on Curt with a look that could have cut through concrete.

“She’s leaving,” Blake said, moving forward.

Curt snorted. “Just talking.”

“Move.”

When Curt didn’t, Blake shoved you gently behind him and closed the space between them. The fight was fast — Blake’s fist connecting, Curt stumbling back, the dull crack of another hit. They were both breathing hard when Curt finally staggered out the door, muttering curses as he went into the night.

Blake exhaled once, then glanced at you. “Go upstairs.” His tone left no room for argument.

You hesitated. “You’re bleeding.”

“Go.”

You went — but not for long.

Fifteen minutes later, you came back down, a small first aid kit in hand. Blake was sitting on the bench by the ring, one side of his shirt hanging loose, knuckles split and raw, a forming bruise along his ribs. He didn’t look up when you approached.

“Let me,” you said, stopping in front of him.

He eyed the kit, then you, before giving a small nod.

You stepped closer, kneeling slightly to clean the split skin across his hand. His breath caught when your fingers brushed his, but he didn’t pull away. You worked in silence, wrapping the gauze carefully, moving to the bruise on his ribs.

“You didn’t have to—”

“Yes, I did,” you said quietly, taping the bandage into place. “You stepped in for me. This is the least I can do.”

His gaze held yours, dark and steady. “Curt won’t bother you again.”

“I’m not worried about Curt,” you murmured, hands still resting lightly against him.

Something flickered in his eyes — something that wasn’t just about the fight. His voice dropped. “You keep saying you can take care of yourself… but you don’t know what you’re walking into here.” His gaze dipped briefly to your lips, then back to your eyes. “And you have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

He didn’t move closer, didn’t touch you — but the weight of it hung between you, as thick and certain as the fog rolling in off the docks.