Series summary: You’re dragged to watch an illegal fight, and after the match, you meet Noah, a fighter who seems to be battling more than just his opponents.
It was hidden deep in a forgotten corner of the industrial district, tucked between rows of abandoned warehouses and loading docks long out of use. It had no sign, barely any light, nothing that marked it as anything but another slab of concrete and rust.
The only hint that something was happening inside were the muffled voices coming through the metal door and the occasional chatting of people slipping in.
You stepped out of the car and pulled your jacket tighter around yourself. The wind bit through your sleeves, but Kole didn’t seem to feel it. He was already circling the front of the car with a grin plastered on his face, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket like he was trying to play it cool.
He was dark-haired, his eyes green, dressed in black from head to toe except for the gray jacket he always wore. A trace of stubble darkened his jaw, the kind that came from not bothering to shave for at least two days.
“Come on,” he said. “Don’t be weird about it.”
You didn’t move right away. Your eyes lingered on the building.
Could you still walk away? Pretend you weren’t about to watch two men try to kill each other while strangers bet on who’d bleed the least?
Kole bumped your shoulder lightly.
“I told you, this place is insane. You’ve never seen anything like it."
You gave him a flat look. “Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of.”
He laughed.
“C'mon. I’ve got two hundred on the guy fighting tonight. Undefeated. Everyone’s saying he’s a beast, fast as hell, never goes down.”
You raised an eyebrow. “And if he does?”
Kole grinned wider. “He won’t.”
He reached for your hand and gave it a squeeze, then started toward the building. You followed, reluctantly. The gravel crunched under your boots as you crossed the lot, the only sound besides those muffled voices growing louder the closer you got.
As you neared the metal door, someone slipped out, a man in a black hoodie, talking fast on a phone, his head down. He looked angry, but you couldn’t make out what he was saying. You wondered if he’d lost a bet, or if someone had tricked him somehow.
You hadn’t even stepped inside yet, and you already hated the place.
Kole knocked twice.
A slot in the door slid open with a metallic rasp. A pair of sharp eyes peered out. They flicked to Kole, then to you, then back again.
Kole spoke first. “We’re good. Dean’s expecting me.”
Dean was one of the organizers of the illegal fights, a guy your boyfriend had met a few months earlier and seemed to have quickly become close with. He was the one who had introduced Kole to that world, telling him it was fun and that you could make good money if you knew how to bet, and bet with the right people. Kole had already been to three matches without you before that night.
A pause. Then the door creaked open just wide enough for the two of you to slip inside.
You were struck by the smell first: a mix of sweat, beer, smoke, metal (you wondered if it was blood, and you hoped not) and weed.
The place was big and the walls were streaked with faded graffiti and tinted yellow, like the place had been dipped in old whiskey. The ceiling was high, with led lights casting a warm glow over the room.
People were packed in tight, standing, laughing, drinking.
The ring at the centre wasn’t a ring at all. It was a square outlined with chain and caution tape, the floor inside scuffed and stained in too many places to count.
Kole tugged your arm.
“Come on. We need to get closer before it fills up.”
You didn’t move.
“Kole, this—”
“It’s fine,” he cut you off. “Just stick close to me.”
You let him pull you through the crowd. The voices got louder. You caught fragments of conversation, names, bets, someone bragging about how much cash they’d put down.
A man passed by with a clipboard, calling out something over the music. People handed over bills without hesitation.
You found a spot near the makeshift ring, the crowd pressing in tight all around.
Suddenly, Dean appeared beside Kole, clapping a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Hey, man,” he said with a grin. Then his eyes shifted to you. “Finally! It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he added, nodding in your direction.
Kole smiled and introduced you quickly, but you barely caught the words over the noise.
Dean turned back to Kole. “Placed your bet?”
“Two hundred.”
Dean nodded, a knowing smile crossing his face. “Good call. Sebastian doesn’t stand a fucking chance tonight.”
Kole grinned wider. “Then everyone betting on him’s crazy. But good for me.”
Before you could say anything, someone called Dean’s name from behind. He glanced over his shoulder, then back at Kole.
“I gotta go. Enjoy the show,” he said, clapping Kole on the shoulder once more before disappearing into the crowd.
You turned back to Kole, trying to find some kind of comfort. He caught your eyes and gave you a reassuring smile.
“Relax,” he said quietly. “It’s not as bad as it looks. You’ll get used to it.”
You glanced around. The crowd was mostly men, gruff, loud, sizing each other up or lost in their bets. A few women were scattered through the room. One was pressed against a wall in the far corner, kissing a man fiercely. Another laughed with a bottle clutched in her hand.
As you were still scanning all the people in that place, Kole spoke again, his mouth close to your ear, his voice low so only you could hear. “There, see that guy? That’s Sebastian. Or Noah, whatever you wanna call him.” He nodded toward a tall figure on the other side of the room with his back mostly turned, speaking quietly to another man.
He had broad shoulders but didn’t look too muscular, he wore a black tank top and seemed covered in tattoos. His dark hair fell over his forehead, and he lifted a hand to brush some strands out of his eyes.
He had a silver bracelet around one wrist, something simple that caught the light when he moved, and both his hands were wrapped in black tape.
His tattoos, unlike some of the harsher ones you'd seen around the place, looked almost softer, though you couldn’t make out the details clearly, they seemed to be flowers and leaves wrapped around his arms.
He turned around, and for a moment, his brown eyes met yours. They looked tired but not cold, just like someone who’d been through a lot and had nothing left to lose.
Kole didn’t seem to notice.
There was something softer about him, and not only the way his tattoos looked. Something that didn’t quite fit the image he was trying to project. He looked like someone playing the part of the scary fighter because it was expected of him, not because that was really him.
Then, he shifted his weight and turned slightly, continuing his conversation with the man in front of him like he’d never looked at you at all.
You leaned in a little closer to Kole, still watching the guy across the room. “Why are you so sure he’s gonna lose tonight?”
Kole gave a short laugh under his breath, like the answer was obvious. “Because you haven’t seen the guy he’s fighting yet.”
You opened your mouth to ask another question, but before you could get the words out, a loud metallic clang rang out, not quite a bell, more like someone slamming a steel bar against a pipe. The noise cut through the music and chatter, and almost instantly everyone turned toward the ring, voices rising and shouting.
You saw Noah stepping toward the makeshift ring, his movements calm, almost slow. He climbed through the chain barrier with ease, black-taped hands flexing slightly as he adjusted his stance.
Then his opponent followed.
If Noah was tall, around 6’3”, the other guy was towering. At least 6’8”, maybe more, and built like he was carved from concrete. His arms were huge, veins visible even from where you stood. He looked strong and he moved like he was sure he was going to win.
And just like that, it made sense.
You suddenly understood why Kole had bet against Noah. Why everyone probably had.
Because standing next to this guy, Noah really looked like he had no chance.
Noah stood still, head slightly lowered, hands loose at his sides. The other guy rolled his shoulders back and flexed his neck like he couldn’t wait to tear something apart.
Then the signal came.
No bell. No referee. They weren't even wearing boxing gloves or any dental protection. Just a shouted “Go!” from somewhere in the crowd, and they moved.
Noah darted forward first. Fast. Faster than you'd expected. He closed the space between them in a second and ducked low, slipping just under a wide punch that would’ve taken his head off. He twisted to the side and landed a quick jab to the ribs, nothing extremely heavy, but enough to make the bigger man grunt and pivot.
They circled.
Noah stayed moving, fast on his feet. The other guy was slower, but every swing he threw felt like it could break bone if it landed.
For a while, it was just movement. Dodging. Glancing hits. The thud of fists against ribs, the crack of footfalls on the stained floor. The crowd screamed every time someone got close to landing something big.
And then, Noah misjudged the angle, maybe by an inch. He went in again, too close this time, and the bigger man caught him.
A punch to the side of his face.
You heard it. That awful, heavy crack of skin on bone.
Noah’s head snapped sideways and he staggered. But before the cheers could even rise, he twisted back with a elbow that landed against the other man’s jaw. A small payback.
It wasn’t enough.
The bigger man slammed his shoulder forward, knocking Noah off balance, and then another hit, straight to the stomach. Noah went down.
He hit the floor hard, one hand catching himself, but there wasn’t time. The next punch came before he could stand. Then another.
Each one landed with a sickening sound, like something breaking.
Noah's opponent took a step back, chest heaving, not from exhaustion, but like he was just getting warmed up.
He turned slightly, raising both arms above his head, palms open as if inviting the crowd to praise him.
And they did. People screamed a name you couldn’t understand, drinks were thrown into the air, fists pounded the chains of the makeshift ring.
Noah pushed himself up again. Blood dripped from his mouth. He swayed on his feet.
The bigger man didn’t wait.
As soon as Noah was back on his feet, blood painting his chin, the other guy launched forward like a freight train.
A kick slammed into Noah’s side.
Noah’s body twisted before crashing to the ground with a thud, skidding across the floor.
He landed right in front of you.
You flinched, instinctively stepping back.
Something slid across the concrete, his bracelet. The silver one that had caught the light earlier. It had somehow come loose in the fall and now scraped its way toward Kole’s boots, stopping just against the toe of his black shoe.
Kole crouched down quickly and snatched it up.
You turned to him, staring. “That’s not yours.”
He grinned, holding the bracelet up between his fingers, letting it dangle in the air like a prize. “This night just keeps getting better, huh?”
“Kole, you can't —”
“I didn’t steal it,” he cut in, slipping the bracelet into his pocket. “I found it. On the ground. Finders keepers.”
You opened your mouth, but no words came out.
Noah was still on the floor, coughing, trying to push himself up again. His blood smeared the concrete just inches from your boots.
Noah pushed himself up again, barely. One knee under him, a hand gripping his ribs like it might keep them from shattering altogether. For a second, he found his footing enough to swing another punch.
But the other man saw it coming. He ducked easily, a smug grin stretching across his face like he was enjoying every second of this.
Then he drove a brutal fist into Noah’s ribs.
The sound was sickening, like a crack, or maybe just your imagination, but either way, it made your stomach turn. Noah dropped again, folding over his midsection, arms wrapped around his stomach as he collapsed.
He didn’t even have time to catch his breath before the other fighter was on top of him.
Straddling his chest, pinning him down, and throwing another punch at his face.
Noah tried to block it, but his arms were too slow.
And he punched him again.
His head jerked to the side.
And again.
Blood sprayed against the stained concrete.
He squirmed beneath the weight, tried to raise a hand to hit back, but the punches kept coming.
The crowd cheered and shouted.
But all you could see was a man covered in blood.
On the ground.
Defenseless.
Getting his face caved in.
There was so much blood.
It didn’t even look like a fight anymore. It looked like an attack.
The man on top had already won. It was obvious. Noah wasn’t resisting, wasn’t fighting back, wasn’t even moving anymore. Just jerks and spasms with every blow to his face or stomach.
And no one was stopping it.
You wondered what the rules were. If there were any.
You felt something twist in your stomach. Your mouth went dry.
You couldn’t breathe.
“I need air,” you said, barely loud enough to hear yourself.
Kole turned his head, distracted. “What?”
“I said,” you snapped, louder now, “I need air.”
And then you were moving, shoving through the crowd.
No one probably even noticed.
You were just one more body in the way.
You pushed past shoulders, dodged a man holding a beer who didn’t even glance at you.
You spotted a door at the back.
You hoped it was the exit.
You pushed it open and stumbled into the night.
The door creaked shut behind you with a dull clang, muffling the noise of the crowd just enough that you could finally think. The air outside was cold and sharp, but you welcomed it. It smelled way better than the stink of sweat and blood and beer inside.
The alley stretched out in both directions, empty and quiet. A few scattered streetlamps buzzed overhead, casting pools of pale yellow light that flickered slightly.
Trash bins lined the wall, dented and overflowing in places. A broken pallet leaned against a fence, a cracked bottle near the curb, glittering faintly.
You walked a few steps and sank down onto the edge of the curb. The concrete was cold beneath you. You pulled your coat tighter, but it didn’t help much. You stared at the ground, and you breathed.
In.
Out.
Slow.
Your heart was still racing, and your hands wouldn’t stop trembling.
What you saw in there, wasn’t even sport.
You tried to understand it. Why people would come here. Why they’d want to watch someone get beaten half to death for fun. For money.
Did they ever think about what it looked like after the lights went off? After the winner walked away, and the loser just... stayed down?
You swallowed.
You wondered if anyone had ever died in that ring. If anyone even cared.
It was nothing like the movies. There, the blood was fake and the bruises washed off.
People cheered because they knew it wasn’t real.
But this?
This was real, and it fucking sucked even just being there, even just watching.
You were still sitting there, hunched over, trying to breathe, when the door behind you burst open with a loud clang.
You flinched.
Two men stepped out, each one gripping Noah by an arm. His feet dragged limply behind him, feet scraping over the concrete. His head hung forward, chin against his chest, and his hair, dark and sweat-slicked, clung to his forehead in wet strands. His face was a mess of blood and swelling. One eye was nearly swollen shut, and his cheek was split open. Blood dripped from his nose and his mouth.
They barely even looked at you. One of them opened his hand and shoved Noah forward like he was nothing but trash.
He hit the pavement hard, the sound awful and dull, and then he didn’t move.
Just crumpled there. One arm bent awkwardly beneath him, the other lying useless at his side.
Then the men turned and went back inside, letting the door slam shut behind them.
You stayed silent for a moment, the only sound in your ears the quick thump of your heartbeat. He didn’t move. Not at all. For a fleeting second, your mind raced with the worst thought: maybe he was dead.
Slowly, you inched closer, careful not to rush or startle him. His face was pressed against the cold concrete, one cheek resting flat on the rough surface while the other was hidden beneath tangled strands of dark hair.
You dropped to your knees beside him, your heart still pounding in your chest. “Please, tell me you’re not dead,” you said, your voice barely more than a whisper.
Gently, you brushed the hair away from his face with your fingers, trying not to hurt him even more.
His eyelids fluttered open just as your hand made contact, but he didn’t look in your eyes.
“Not yet,” he mumbled.
A small relief washed over you.
He didn’t try to move. He just laid there, face bruised, lips split, blood drying in sharp red lines along his jaw and neck.
“I should probably… get you up or something,” you said quietly, more to yourself than to him.
No answer.
You swallowed and shifted forward an inch.
“Okay, I’m going to help you sit up, alright?” You paused. “Unless that’s a terrible idea.”
His lips barely moved. “They’ve had worse ideas tonight.”
You let out a faint breath that was almost a laugh, then finally reached toward him, slowly, gently, and slid your hand under his shoulder.
He groaned but didn’t protest, and with a little effort, you managed to ease him into a sitting position, his back leaning against the brick wall behind him. He winced through gritted teeth, one hand coming up to press lightly against his ribs.
“Sorry,” you murmured.
“S’alright,” he rasped, closing his eyes for a second. “Better than lying face-down in garbage.”
You sat back on your heels, watching him breathe. One of his hands wasn't covered anymore, and his knuckles were raw and red, the other was still loosely wrapped in torn black tape. The side of his face was already swelling.
“I have no idea what to do.” You said. And it was true. Obviously it was the first time you found yourself in the back of an illegal fight club with a beaten up guy.
His mouth curled faintly, more pain than smile. “It’s not the first time,” he said, “You don’t have to do anything.”
He looked like a kicked dog, half-expecting someone to come finish the job.
You didn’t know what to say. You just stared at him, and for the first time, up close, he looked back. Even with one eye nearly swollen shut, he met your gaze.
He was younger than you’d first assumed. Probably still in his twenties. You’d never seen someone look so young and so tired at the same time.
He was looking at you like he was trying to understand why you were still there, why you were trying to help him. Like it never happened to him before.
You found yourself wondering why he was even there. Why he did what he did. What his story was.
There was no way he did it because he liked it, you could see that written all over his bloodied face. In the way he sat slumped against the wall, exhausted.
He wasn’t like the guy who had beaten him. That man had raised his arms for applause, grinning. That man enjoyed it, Noah didn't. And not just because he lost.
You opened your mouth to speak, but before you could, a sudden rush of blood spilled from his nose. He coughed hard, blinking fast.
“Shit. Tilt your head forward,” you said quickly, reaching toward him but stopping just short of touching. “Don’t let it go down your throat.”
He nodded faintly and leaned forward, breathing heavily through his mouth. You looked around instinctively for something, anything, to stop the bleeding. You didn’t have tissues and your leather jacket couldn’t help.
You thought about it just for a moment, hoping you were not going to regret it.
Then, you stood up quickly, heat rushing to your face even though the air outside was biting cold. Your heart was still racing, your hands trembling slightly.
Honestly, it felt a little bit like you suddenly lost your mind. Because this wasn’t something you usually did:
stripping in a dark alley in the middle of the night for a guy you barely knew, a guy you saw for the first time less than an hour ago in a underground fight club. A guy whose name you only knew because someone else told you. If that was even his real name.
But there was nothing else. No tissues. No towels. No first-aid kit magically appearing out of the shadows. Just you, him, and the slow, steady drip of blood from his nose onto the dirty pavement. And the fact that you were a person with at least a bit of a heart, someone who hated seeing another human being suffer, unlike all those people back inside.
So you turned around, to have a second of privacy while undressing.
Your fingers moved quickly, unzipping your jacket and shrugging it off your shoulders. The cold bit into your skin instantly, but you ignored it. Then you pulled your shirt over your head in one smooth motion, balling it up in your hands. You were left in just your bra for a moment, breath hitching in your throat as the wind kissed every inch of exposed skin.
Then, you pulled your jacket back on, zipped it up to your throat, and exhaled a shaky breath as you turned back toward him.
He was still hunched over, blood slowly dripping between his fingers, and he hadn’t said a word. Maybe he hadn’t even noticed.
You dropped back down to your knees beside him, still holding your shirt in your hands.
You held it out to him carefully, not pushing it into his hands.
“Here,” you said.
He looked at the shirt in your hands like it was something he didn't deserve for a moment. Then, slowly, he reached for it.
His fingers brushed yours, and the contact was barely there but it was enough to make your breath catch, even if you didn't know why.
“Thank you,” he said.
Then he paused.
You saw it, the moment he noticed the smear of blood on your fingers. A small streak where his fingers had touched your skin.
His eyes widened slightly, and he looked up at you with a flash of something that almost looked like shame.
“Sorry,” he muttered.
You blinked, looked at your hand. It wasn’t much. Just a thin streak of red, already drying in the cold air.
“It’s okay,” you said softly.
Because it was okay. You hadn’t even noticed until he pointed it out. Maybe because, in that moment, you were too focused on him.
On the man who, if it weren't for you, would probably still be lying face down in a pool of his own blood. The man you knew probably wouldn't call anyone for help and would just stay there until someone else found him, maybe while throwing out the trash.
He nodded slowly, not quite meeting your eyes again. He looked down at the shirt, then raised it gently to his face, trying to stop the bleeding. You watched him as he moved.
You didn’t say anything else for a while. Just sat there as he used your shirt to stop the bleeding.
“What’s your name?” he asked then.
You told him, and he repeated it quietly, as if tasting the word, then gave you a faint, tired smile. “Noah.”
"Yeah, I figured."
“I’ve never seen you here before.”
You shrugged, trying to sound casual but feeling a bit exposed. “Yeah, first time. My boyfriend dragged me along.”
He shifted slightly against the wall. “You didn’t even see the match finish.”
You frowned. “It wasn’t exactly something I was enjoying. For a second I thought I might throw up.”
Only after answering did you register what his words really meant.
He had noticed.
Somehow, while lying on the floor, half-conscious and getting the life beaten out of him, he’d seen you leave. Was that even possible?
“How much did you win tonight?” He asked before you could say anything.
You shook your head. “I didn’t bet. Just him.”
He let out a low chuckle, then flinched for the pain. “You should’ve. It was obvious I was gonna lose.”
You frowned. “Why did you fight then?”
Noah gave a dry laugh. “This is all I've got.”
A dark alley, a fight club and body covered in bruises?
“Impossible.” you said.
He had to have a family, friends, a home somewhere. Right?
“You don’t know me.” he muttered.
And the way he said it… it felt like an answer to all the questions that had been racing through your mind.
No, he didn’t have anyone. No other options. No place to go.
You didn’t really know him. For all you knew, he could’ve been a criminal.
But something deep down told you he wasn’t.
He didn’t seem like someone who deserved to be thrown out like garbage, left bleeding and broken in a dark alley after getting beaten half to death.
A damp strand of hair kept falling into his eyes, and you found yourself fighting the urge to brush it away with your fingers.
The bleeding from his nose had finally stopped, but then he shifted, just slightly, and let out a sharp hiss through his teeth.
“Fuck,” he muttered, one hand flying to his ribs. His jaw clenched, and his eyes (or eye) squeezed shut for a second.
You leaned in. “Ribs?”
He gave a faint nod, breathing shallow. “It'll be okay in a couple of days.”
“You need a hospital,” you said firmly, even though you already suspected what his answer would be. “They need to check you out. That could be serious.”
“No.” The word came out fast. “Out of the question.”
“You could have internal—”
“I said no.” He insisted. “I don’t have the money. And they’ll ask too many questions. I can’t risk that.”
You hesitated. “I want to ask many questions too.”
He looked away. For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Then, softly, he said, “You shouldn’t.”
Your mouth opened, but before you could speak, he went on.
“You seem like a good person. So… don’t come back here. Don’t get involved.”
“I-”
“It’s better if you don’t ask anything. And it’s better if we never see each other again.”
Then, quieter still: “But thank you. For this. For staying. For giving a damn when nobody else did. I mean it.”
You exhaled, your breath fogging faintly in the cold air. "Is that your way to tell me to leave?"
“Yes. But before I need-” he paused, glancing at the damp concrete beneath him. “Can you help me up?”
You stared. “You’re joking.”
He shook his head once, slowly. “No joke. I just need to stand. Please.”
Your heart squeezed. Please. He didn’t look at you when he said it. There was something almost painful in how quiet the word came out, like he wasn’t used to asking anyone for anything.
“You’re insane,” you murmured. “You’re going to pass out the second you try to move.”
He didn’t answer. Just held your gaze, and waited.
And you just couldn't tell him no.
So you just slipped an arm around him, one under his shoulders, careful of his ribs.
He was heavy and incredibly tall. Your palm pressed briefly against his chest, and you felt the stickiness of old blood, dried and flaking now.
He hissed through his teeth, body trembling slightly, and his fingers gripped your jacket.
“Okay,” you whispered, grounding both your feet. “On three.”
It took longer than it should have. Every movement was careful and slow.
When he finally made it upright, he swayed.
You tightened your hold for a second, steadying him. His body was warm against yours despite the cold of the night.
You didn’t speak.
Neither did he.
Then, slowly, he took a half step back. You let your hands fall away as he reached for the wall, one palm bracing against the brick for support. He leaned into it.
“I’m good,” he said quietly. “I’ve got it. Thank you.”
Just as you were about to say something, the door Noah had been thrown out creaked open.
You turned at the sound, seeing Kole stepping into the alley.
“There you are,” he said, “I’ve been looking all over for you.”
You froze for half a second. Noah straightened a little, his fingers still splayed on the brick for balance.
Kole’s eyes flicked to him and stayed there. He let out a low whistle, dragging his gaze from Noah’s bruised face to the bloodied shirt.
“Damn, man,” he said with a lopsided grin. “You look like shit.”
Noah didn’t say a word.
“But,” Kole continued, shrugging with one shoulder, “you made me win two hundred bucks tonight, so... thanks for that.”
There was no real gratitude in his voice.
Kole turned to you again, like the interruption was over. “Come on,” he said, jerking his chin toward the street. “Let’s go.”
And just like that, he started walking.
No pause to see if you’d follow. No offer of a hand. No helo for the man covered in blood next to you. Just an expectation that you’d fall into step, like always.
You lingered for a second. Looked back at Noah.
He hadn’t moved. His eyes were on the ground now, jaw tight, face unreadable. You didn’t know what you wanted to say.
“Try to take care, Noah” you said softly. What a weird thing to say to a man who was fighting for a living.
For a moment, you thought maybe he wouldn’t look up. But then he met your eyes again.
"Yeah. You too."
You started walking away.
The air felt immediately colder without his warmth beside you.
You didn’t stop thinking about him the entire car ride home. Not even for a second.
Not when the lights of the city blurred past the window, not when Kole went on and on about how he should’ve bet more, how the guy didn’t stand a chance from the start, how easy money like that didn’t come around often.
“You dipped out before it ended,” Kole said, eyes on the road, voice casual.
You kept your gaze fixed outside the window. “I wasn’t feeling great.”
He hummed. “Yeah, it was pretty rough. That guy took a beating. Probably gonna piss blood for a week.”
You didn’t respond.
Kole glanced over at you, eyebrows raised. “You good?”
“Fine.”
A beat of silence. The hum of the engine filled the space.
“Didn’t think this stuff bothered you,” he added eventually.
You shrugged, still watching the city slide by. “I guess I never watched someone actually get hurt like that before.”
“It’s a fight,” Kole said. “They sign up for it. You think the guy didn’t know what he was getting into?”
“I’m not saying he didn’t,” you replied, your tone flat. “Just… doesn’t make it easier to watch.”
Kole scoffed under his breath, amused. “You’re getting soft on me.”
You didn’t answer.
He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, then smirked. “Don’t tell me you were rooting for him.”
Still, you stayed quiet.
“Babe.”
You finally looked at him. “What?”
He grinned. “Come on. He didn’t stand a chance. The second he walked in, you could tell. That’s easy money. I should’ve put down double.”
You looked back out the window.
“Right. Easy money,” you echoed quietly.
Kole didn’t notice the shift in your tone, or didn’t care. He kept going.
“You gotta learn to detach a little. It’s not ballet.”
You remembered the way Noah had staggered, ribs heaving, blood matting his hair.
You remembered the way he’d looked at you like you were the first person to treat him like he wasn't trash in a long time.
He shook his head, amused. “Come on. You’re not actually sitting there feeling bad for the guy?”
You didn’t answer.
He tapped your knee lightly with his hand. “Babe.”
“Can we talk about something else?”
Kole let out a short laugh. “Seriously?”
You turned your head just enough to glance at him. “Yeah. Seriously.”
You both remained silent until you got home.
You didn’t stop thinking about him even when you got into bed and Kole’s arm wrapped around you like nothing had changed.
Especially not then.
Because while his breath warmed the back of your neck and his hand rested heavy on your waist, your mind was still in that alley.
With him.
That man who, somehow, felt like he deserved better.
Who looked like a beaten-down stray too wary to trust kindness.
Who hadn’t asked for help, but hadn’t completely pushed you away either.
You kept seeing his face, bruised and tired but his eyes were still kind.
You kept hearing his voice, low and rough, saying thank you like it was the first time anyone had tried to help him.
You fell asleep thinking about him. And he was your first thought when you woke up.
I ran for half an hour to catch a train after my exam in 33°C heat while carrying a bag full of books. i didn’t faint and i didn’t die. although a guy did ask if i was okay, so i probably looked like i was about to.
i’d say any running i have to do tomorrow after the gates open will be NOTHING compared to that
I ran for half an hour to catch a train after my exam in 33°C heat while carrying a bag full of books. i didn’t faint and i didn’t die. although a guy did ask if i was okay, so i probably looked like i was about to.
i’d say any running i have to do tomorrow after the gates open will be NOTHING compared to that
snowghoul
janainaart
jacobvanloon
theartofmadeline
germansingergirl
turnnoffyourmind
yousharknotpass
dededos
