Lights Down Low. (@ofminaiisms )
Josh had always believed that comfort was an art form — something carefully built, piece by piece, like structuring a match that needed the crowd to breathe with it. Tonight, he approached the quiet of his apartment the same way. The lights were low but warm, amber lamps tucked into corners instead of the harsh overhead glare he lived under in arenas. A soft playlist hummed in the background — nothing too obvious, just mellow instrumentals layered with the faint crackle of vinyl he’d hunted down during one of those rare afternoons off the road. He’d rearranged the couch twice, maybe three times, making sure there was enough space for Mina to curl into him if she wanted, but also enough room for her to stretch out if she was tired — and she would be tired. She always was after flights, after shows, after being “on” for everyone else except herself. He’d draped a blanket over the backrest, the ridiculously plush one she teased him about owning, because she always reached for it anyway.
The coffee table held the kind of careful chaos that only meant something if you knew them — takeout from that late-night place halfway between both their training facilities, her favorite sparkling drink already chilled, and a small stack of Polaroids he’d been meaning to show her. Not posed ones. Real ones. Airport terminals. Empty gyms at midnight. A blurry mirror selfie where he’d tried to copy her pre-match glare and failed miserably. Proof, in little square frames, that even when they weren’t together… they still were.
He kept checking the clock without realizing he was doing it, pacing once, then forcing himself to sit, then standing again to adjust something that didn’t actually need adjusting. It had been weeks since they’d shared the same room without a schedule looming over them. Different companies meant different cities, different storylines, different expectations — parallel lives that only intersected in stolen hours and overlapping travel routes. So tonight wasn’t elaborate. No grand gesture. No reservations. Just space. Quiet. The chance to exist without cameras, without ring gear, without someone calling time.
When he finally heard footsteps in the hallway outside, Josh stilled, the nervous energy settling into something softer — something steadier. The kind of anticipation that didn’t spike like adrenaline before a match but instead unfolded slow and warm, like muscles relaxing after the bell rings. He didn’t rush to the door right away. He let the moment hang there — the almost, the breath before contact — knowing that in a life built on constant motion, the rare stillness of waiting for her was its own kind of victory. And when the handle finally turned… he just smiled, already knowing the night wouldn’t need anything more than whatever they chose to make of the quiet together.
Add a warm, loving greeting that Josh gives Mina when she arrives
Josh had always believed that comfort was an art form — something carefully built, piece by piece, like structuring a match that needed the crowd to breathe with it. Tonight, he approached the quiet of his apartment the same way. The lights were low but warm, amber lamps tucked into corners instead of the harsh overhead glare he lived under in arenas. A soft playlist hummed in the background — nothing too obvious, just mellow instrumentals layered with the faint crackle of vinyl he’d hunted down during one of those rare afternoons off the road. He’d rearranged the couch twice, maybe three times, making sure there was enough space for Mina to curl into him if she wanted, but also enough room for her to stretch out if she was tired — and she would be tired. She always was after flights, after shows, after being “on” for everyone else except herself. He’d draped a blanket over the backrest, the ridiculously plush one she teased him about owning, because she always reached for it anyway.
The coffee table held the kind of careful chaos that only meant something if you knew them — takeout from that late-night place halfway between both their training facilities, her favorite sparkling drink already chilled, and a small stack of Polaroids he’d been meaning to show her. Not posed ones. Real ones. Airport terminals. Empty gyms at midnight. A blurry mirror selfie where he’d tried to copy her pre-match glare and failed miserably. Proof, in little square frames, that even when they weren’t together… they still were.
He kept checking the clock without realizing he was doing it, pacing once, then forcing himself to sit, then standing again to adjust something that didn’t actually need adjusting. It had been weeks since they’d shared the same room without a schedule looming over them. Different companies meant different cities, different storylines, different expectations — parallel lives that only intersected in stolen hours and overlapping travel routes. So tonight wasn’t elaborate. No grand gesture. No reservations. Just space. Quiet. The chance to exist without cameras, without ring gear, without someone calling time.
When he finally heard footsteps in the hallway outside, Josh stilled, the nervous energy settling into something softer — something steadier. The kind of anticipation that didn’t spike like adrenaline before a match but instead unfolded slow and warm, like muscles relaxing after the bell rings. He opened the door before she could even knock twice, and the moment he saw her — travel-worn, eyes a little heavy but still shining the way they always did when they found him — everything else faded.
“Hey… there she is,” he murmured, his voice soft in a way it never was anywhere else. He stepped forward immediately, arms wrapping around her like instinct, like gravity had finally corrected itself. One hand slid gently to the back of her head, fingers brushing through her hair as he held her close, lingering longer than a simple hello ever required. He pressed a slow kiss to her temple, then another to her forehead, breathing her in like he needed proof she was really there.
“I missed you,” he said quietly, not rushed, not dramatic — just honest. The kind of words that settled deep instead of floating away. His thumbs brushed along her arms as he pulled back just enough to look at her properly, eyes soft, searching her face the way someone does when they want to memorize every detail before time tries to steal it again.
“You look exhausted… and perfect… but mostly exhausted,” he added with a gentle smile, his nose nudging hers affectionately before he leaned in for a slow, warm kiss — the kind that wasn’t about urgency, just reunion. Just grounding. Just finally.
He took her bag from her shoulder without asking, one hand staying loosely linked with hers as he guided her inside. The apartment wrapped around them in warmth, quiet music, and the unmistakable feeling of being somewhere safe enough to exhale.
“Come here,” he murmured, guiding her toward the couch, already reaching for that ridiculously soft blanket. “No crowds. No cameras. No travel alarms. Just us tonight… okay?”
And as she settled in beside him, leaning into his side like she belonged there — like she always had — Josh let out a quiet breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding for weeks. The kind of breath that only came when the waiting was over. When the distance finally gave way to presence. When love, for a little while at least, didn’t have to compete with the road.
