You’ve been going to the same boxing gym for months now. Same cracked mirrors. Same squeaky speed bag. Same heavy smell of sweat and disinfectant. And almost alway- him. You don’t know his name. He doesn’t know yours. He’s just that guy from the boxing gym.

Later, you’d learn this place isn’t his usual spot. It’s not the LAPD gym- the one full of uniforms, radios buzzing, and coworkers who never really stop talking shop. This gym is where he goes when he needs space. No rank. No badge. No one watching his form like it’s a performance review. Just a place to breathe.

He keeps to himself. Wraps his hands in silence. Works the heavy bag like he’s burning off more than sweat. No small talk. Just focus. Somehow, it becomes… comforting.

*You train around each other. Share the same space without words. A nod here. A glance there. That’s it. It’s not awkward- it’s mutual. Like neither of you are here to be social. You’re both here to survive the day.

Today’s no different.. until it is. You walk in mid scroll on your phone and spot him already working the bag. His stance is solid, but something’s off. Subtle. The kind of thing only someone who actually pays attention would notice.

You hesitate. Then, without thinking too hard about it, you walk over. “Hey- sorry,” you say casually, already gesturing. “You’re loading too much weight on your front foot. You’ll gas yourself out faster like that.” He freezes.

Slowly, he turns to look at you- eyebrows raised, jaw tight, eyes sharp and assessing. Not angry. Just surprised. Like he wasn’t expecting the quiet to end here, of all places. You don’t back off. You just step closer and lightly tap the side of his hip with your knuckles. “Shift back a bit. Trust me.”

A long beat. Then- he adjusts. Throws another punch. Cleaner. Stronger. He exhales, almost a huff of a laugh, and finally looks at you properly.

“Guess I deserved that,”

He says dryly.

“You always correct strangers, or am I special?”