Callused
Chapter One: How Not To Break Your Wrist
I didn’t walk into the boxing gym looking for Paul Lahote.
I was looking for something to hit.
The place smelled like old leather and sweat, like anger had soaked into the walls and never left. Heavy bags swung lazily from chains in the corners, and the floor stuck faintly under my shoes. It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t welcoming.
It felt right.
I wrapped my hands the way I thought I was supposed to—too fast, too loose—and took a swing at the nearest bag. Pain shot up my arm immediately, sharp and punishing.
I swore and went to hit it again.
“Stop.”
The word cracked through the gym, hard enough to make me freeze.
I turned, already annoyed, already ready to tell whoever it was to mind their own business. That’s when I saw him—leaning against the ring with his arms crossed, scowl firmly in place like it was part of his face.
Paul Lahote looked like he belonged here. Broad shoulders, muscles tight under his shirt, jaw clenched like he was chewing on something he couldn’t swallow. He looked at me like my bad form was a personal insult.
“Unless you want to break your wrist,” he added flatly.
“I didn’t ask for help,” I said.
He snorted. “Yeah, well, my dad owns the place, and I’m not dealing with a lawsuit because you don’t know how to throw a punch.”
I should’ve left.
Instead, I smiled sweetly and hit the bag again.
The pain was worse this time. Worth it.
Paul swore under his breath and crossed the gym in long strides, stopping the bag mid-swing with one hand.
“You trying to prove something,” he asked, “or just stubborn?”
I lifted my chin. “Both.”
Something shifted in his eyes at that. Recognition, maybe. Or irritation layered over something else.
“Move,” he said.
I did.
He wrapped my hands properly without asking, fingers quick and firm, tightening the fabric like he cared whether I got hurt or not. He adjusted my stance, hands on my elbows, my hips, his presence warm and solid behind me.
“You punch with your shoulder,” he said. “Not your wrist. Breathe out when you hit.”
I tried again.
The impact landed solid this time, rattling the bag instead of my bones.
I blinked. “Oh.”
Paul nodded once. “Yeah.”
That was how it started.
I kept coming back.
At first, it was just training. Paul correcting my form with clipped instructions and visible irritation. Me talking back when he got too bossy. We argued about everything—music, technique, whether anger made you stronger or just reckless.
But the gym gave me something I didn’t realize I’d been missing.
Permission.
Permission to be loud. To be angry. To hit something instead of swallowing it down and smiling like my mom did on her way out the door every morning. Being a doctor meant saving everyone else and never being home for dinner. Being an only child meant learning early how to keep yourself company.
Charlie helped. Uncle Charlie, technically. He taught me how to cook, how to fish, how to be quiet without being lonely. Still, the house in Forks felt empty more often than not.
Paul never told me to calm down.
He never told me to soften.
“You’re not weak,” he said once, rewrapping my hands after I split the skin on my knuckles. “You’re just holding it wrong.”
I didn’t tell him how much that mattered.
I started staying late. Sitting on the ring ropes while he trained, tossing insults while he worked the bag. Watching the way he bled his anger into every movement like it was the only place it fit.
Somewhere along the way, we became friends.
Real ones. The kind that showed up without asking. The kind that knew when to talk and when to just be there.
The line blurred quietly.
A hand lingering too long when he corrected my stance. The way his eyes tracked me when I moved. The way my pulse jumped when he stood too close.
We didn’t talk about it.
Maybe we were afraid that naming it would make it real.
All I knew was that Paul Lahote was angry in a way that felt familiar. Like we were both holding something heavy, just trying not to drop it on ourselves.
I didn’t know yet that the anger under his skin was something else entirely.
Only that when he taught me how to hit the bag without hurting myself, he was also teaching me how to stay standing.
And somehow, I was teaching him the same thing.
