toky. !! @tokyveil - Tumblr Blog

FINE PRINT VIOLENCE !

𐙚 . pairing ⎯⎯ boxing coach!lando x journalism student!reader

𐙚 . summary ⎯⎯ when the grade you need to graduate with a journalism degree is jeopardized by your lack of interest in any other area, it's probably not the best idea to enlist a frustrated ex-boxing champion to save your career. lando norris isn't what he used to be; he's a coach without passion or humility, who pushes his students to the point of injury, and most importantly, he doesn't train women.

𐙚 . warnings ⎯⎯ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT (MDNI) bad language??? idk if that's even a warning. sport terms poorly explained or inaccurate. slow burn. eventually smut. p in v. kinda hate sex. kinda dirty talk??? except is not THAT dirty. unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it (i always wanted to say that, lmao)). lando is reaaaaally ooc. angst, i highly doubt this has a happy ending i'm sorry. isack hadjar is kinda haunting the narrative.

𐙚 . word count ⎯⎯ 20k.

𐙚 . a/n ⎯⎯ ok first of all, i've spent the last 6 months trying to finish this draft so i'm sorry if this is absolute garbage. second of all, english is not my first language, so i'm also sorry if this sounds off, so any suggestions regarding the writing or translation will be welcome. and lastly i'll use this space to mention a person that asked me to tag them when i finish this, so here we are. @fuckingsimp4azriel girl i was only able to finish this thank to you, hope you like it!

The chatter of the keyboard was already needling at your nerves, and you hadn’t even been in the café for a full hour. Your nail kept tapping the space bar, gentle and relentless, only for you to erase everything with a furious swipe a second later. The cup beside you —a hot latte, even if autumn still refused to fully arrive— had long gone cold, forgotten while your mind clung to the blank document before you. The open email in the tab above seemed to mock you with its silent impatience.

Four hours and thirty-eight minutes. That was how long the assignment had been sitting on the university’s webpage. The final assignment, the last offering of your entire degree before graduation. A sprawling project meant to consume your remaining two semesters.

With a frustrated exhale, you dragged a hand across your forehead, pushing your hair out of your sight. You were screwed; there was nothing in you. Not a single idea sprouting through the cracks. So much dedication poured into the degree you had dreamed of, only for you to feel yourself collapsing under the weight of one task.

The last damn task.

“Can I get you anything else?” You lifted your head and tore your gaze from the screen for a few seconds, startled by the soft voice of the girl who’d been tending to you all afternoon.

Your eyes ached from spending so long folded inside your own mind while pretending to stare at your work. You sighed, offering the girl —Karin, said her name tag— a belated smile. You really shouldn’t order anything else, not after the ham-and-cheese croissant you had already devoured.

And yet you found yourself answering:

“One of those cheesecake slices in the display would be great.”

“Berry or caramel?” she asked.

“Caramel, please.”

“Right away.” And just like that, Karin vanished again.

You were free to return to your misery for a few more minutes. She came back with a generous slice of cheesecake, and you granted yourself fifteen minutes of harmless indulgence, eating in silence and finally finishing the cold —yet still delicious— coffee.

You stretched your neck, feeling the dull ache blooming from sitting too long in the same position.

Curse this compulsive hunt for perfection.

Clearing your throat, you closed your laptop. You tried to convince yourself that you still had at least three hundred days left to work on the project. To at least begin it. Sometimes the best ideas refused to arrive when you chased them too hard. So you packed your things, paid for everything —and tried not to cry at the numbers on the receipt, the tax of a broke student in her final year— and left the café with the bitter taste of stagnation on your tongue before heading home.

“Hey, sweetheart. How was university?” Your father greeted you as soon as you stepped through the door, kissing your forehead while you slipped off your bag.

“Fine,” you sighed, dropping the bag on the couch, where he sat down again to continue watching TV.

“That doesn’t sound fine,” he teased.

“It’s just this long-term project. I still don’t know how to start it.” You smiled weakly as you took off your jacket. You could hear your mother moving around in the kitchen.

“What’s it about?” he asked, torn between the fight on the sports channel and your academic struggles.

“That’s the problem. It’s completely free-topic.” You shrugged, sinking onto the couch and staring at the TV without really seeing it. “I have no idea what to research.”

“Do it about boxing,” your father said instantly, making you roll your eyes with amusement.

“Okay, I'm going back to mom now,” you mocked, rising to your feet.

“I’m serious, babe. There are fascinating topics. Look! That one there used to be a superstar and retired after his last fight with a rookie. He was disqualified after landing a blow that—”

At some point, you stopped listening. You adored your father, but sometimes his enthusiasm swallowed entire rooms, and it felt like the whole world —his world— orbited only the things he loved, leaving little space for anything else. And he loved boxing so much that he’d talked your older brother into going pro when he was barely out of childhood… and he had tried the same with you.

The truth was that boxing had never really interested you, and there were so many fields you could explore for your final project. Could boxing truly cover everything you needed, when the pressure to deliver something perfect was clawing at your ribs?

“I expect great things from you,” your professor had said earlier that morning when you approached her after class to ask for more details. “You always make your assignments personal. I expect the same for this final project. Don’t disappoint me.” Then she walked away, leaving an even heavier weight on your shoulders.

“You look like you’re trying to solve your entire life in one afternoon,” was the first thing your mother said when you stepped into the kitchen. She loved spending time there, baking pastries and cakes whenever she had a spare hour.

“Because I have to solve the rest of my life today, if possible,” you whimpered, hugging her as she patted your back and kissed the top of your head.

“Don’t force it. Breathe,” she murmured.

It didn’t help much, if you were honest. But she was your mother and you loved her, and you would never say that aloud. So you only smiled faintly. You stayed chatting with her until the hour grew late enough that you reluctantly returned to your room to keep being frustrated at a project you didn’t know how to even begin.

“Come here, sit with me,” your father called out the moment you emerged from the kitchen.

“I have to study, Dad—”

“Five minutes. Give it five minutes, stay a little.” He insisted until you sighed. “You’re always studying. A five-minute break won’t kill anyone.”

You let out a soft laugh and indulged him, sinking onto the couch. You knew enough about boxing to follow the fight on screen, even if you didn’t enjoy it with the same feverish devotion as the old man beside you, who flinched dramatically at every punch.

“There he is, that’s the one I was talking about,” your father said, pointing at the screen just as the camera showed a trainer speaking to his fighter in a corner, probably planning the next round.

“What about him? I thought coachs were older.”

“He was a beast five years ago, but he retired,” he explained, earning an “ah” of understanding from you.

“And why did he retire?”

“Rumors, mostly. Nothing confirmed,” your father hesitated. “In his last fight he practically knocked out a rookie. The rookie retired right after too, but no one knows why, the family refuses to talk.”

“Isn’t knocking your opponent out normal in boxing? Comes with the territory,” you teased.

“Some say the kid might have suffered an injury that kept him from ever fighting again. But Norris never said a word.”

Your eyebrow arched, that spark of curiosity twitching to life at the base of your skull. Genuine, insistent.

You stood up before your father could protest and hurried to your room, opening your laptop again as you dove into column after column written about Lando Norris.

Columns from 2015, columns from 2019, just before he retired. Very few after that, from the years he dedicated himself to teaching. Many pieces about his last fight, and even more criticizing his attitude. None offering anything truly relevant. All riddled with speculation that didn’t feel remotely close to truth. Most were nothing but hollow tirades disguised as journalism, weak narratives built on sand.

It was almost pathetic.

“Illegal Strike, Gentle Consequence,” written by Hill West.

We’ve witnessed hard blows, dirty blows, blows argued about in bars for years. But last night reminded us that sometimes the rulebook sits prettily on the table and nowhere else.

The veteran threw an illegal so blatant even the referee seemed startled to actually react. And still, the punishment was light, almost courteous.

The fighter slipped out of the ring minutes later, as though the disqualification were a footnote in his autobiography. But many will remember this bout as the final mark of someone who forgot greatness requires boundaries.

You frowned, scrolling and scrolling through more opinion pieces, feeling your mind bruise beneath the emptiness of them all.

The last column, the most recent one, was more than three years old.

And you realized this might not be a bad place to start.

The corridor reserved for the victors was narrow and grimy, the kind of passage that clung to the walls of a third-rate gym hosting a fight barely worthy of a flickering spotlight. You had left your father behind a few minutes earlier, keeping watch over the car while you claimed you needed the bathroom.

Except you weren’t going to the bathroom at all.

You quickened your steps, clutching your bag, and slipped in beside Lando Norris himself, matching his pace as if borrowing his shadow. He wasn’t much taller than you; his height was unremarkable, but his body was broad and emanated a self-assurance that pushed you instinctively toward retreat.

“It was a good fight,” you offered, uncertain how to catch his attention in a way that wouldn’t bounce off him like a dull coin.

How did one speak to a man with whom you shared no interests when all you needed from him was information?

Lando turned at the sound of your voice, as though only now noticing the presence walking beside him. You watched his brow furrow, genuinely puzzled.

“What? Do I owe you something?” The question rattled you.

“No,” you answered, as if it should have been obvious.

“Then what? What do you want?”

You lifted your shoulders a fraction, your mind stalling for a few extra seconds as it tried to stitch together a lie convincing enough to save you. You were impulsive by nature, and you knew—given the infuriating lack of information about this man online—that he had absolutely no inclination to talk to any journalist looking to siphon off a few quotes.

No, that approach was doomed.

“I saw your fight,” you blurted out. “Well, your boxer’s fight. It was incredible.” You corrected yourself immediately.

“Right.” His tone was flat, bored.

“I thought you might be interested in training someone else,” you ventured. “I boxed when I was a kid, and I’d like to—”

“I don’t train women.” He cut you off without hesitation.

“Why not?” you asked, offended and disappointed in equal measure.

“Simple lack of interest. Don’t take it personally.” He shrugged.

It wasn’t personal, but you needed this man if you wanted a strong project. You were already obsessed with the scraps of information available about him, and with the idea of how much more you could uncover if you could only stand beside him long enough.

“It’s not personal, but I’m very good,” you insisted. A lie. You hadn’t touched a pair of gloves since you were eleven. “I won all my matches when I fought at flyweight.”

“Hooray. Congratulations. Still not interested.” Lando grew tense, walking faster, eager to shake you off.

“I’m sure I can—”

“Nope. Good night.”

You growled under your breath as he strode ahead, carried by those damn athlete’s legs and graceless efficiency. Maybe you needed more exercise after all; a life spent folded behind a computer screen was taking its toll, and you were only twenty-three.

Still, you were nowhere near giving up.

The leggings felt uncomfortable, squeezing your legs in all the wrong ways, but you forced yourself to ignore it as you pushed open the heavy gym door. The smell of sweat and cheap air freshener rolled over you, though at least the air conditioning breathed a cool, crisp relief across your skin as the door swung shut behind you. Anywhere else the noise might have drawn attention, but the sharp rhythm of punches, the ragged breaths, the shouts echoing off the walls drowned it beautifully.

The entrance was carpeted. Bags cluttered the shelves on the left, and a heap of foul-smelling sneakers claimed the corner. Half-empty water bottles stood abandoned like little monuments to exhaustion.

As you stepped farther in, you collided straight into the sight of the ring: a raised platform, half a meter tall, roped in and holding two people trading blows in a sparring session. You tore your eyes away only to crash into your reflection in the large mirror, and then into the cluster of men gathered around it, all of them watching what seemed to be a demonstration.

You felt so out of place it tightened around your lungs. When you boxed as a child, you never had to stand among grown men, never had to reckon with their size or their presence. Of course you felt uncomfortable in a gym built out of nothing but male sweat and feral energy.

You set your bag down and planted yourself in front of a heavy bag. Maybe it was just your imagination, but you could feel the weight of their stares burning into the back of your neck. They knew you didn’t belong, and somewhere beneath your stubbornness, you knew it too—your posture awkward, your gaze skittering over the room every few seconds, alert in that brittle way prey learns to be.

Still, you told yourself this was a thousand times better than giving up and starting from zero again. Better than chasing a new idea.

So you began hitting the bag. You had no wraps, no gloves, nothing. Not yet. Your scholarship money always arrived at the end of the month, and there were still twelve long days to go. You had no idea how to stretch your monthly budget far enough to add two new purchases with the fifty dollars the state threw at you.

Working wasn’t an option, you thought as your poor technique sent a dull pain through your knuckles. Classes drained too much time and energy already, and your scholarship didn’t allow you the luxury of easing your workload. You couldn’t afford fewer credits. And now you’d be spending even more time training.

This final project would devour you alive. But it was the last one.

“What are you doing here?” It took you a few seconds to realize the question was meant for you.

Lando had a strange, suffocating presence. He was young—likely nearing thirty—but the way he moved, the way he stood, was nearly frightening. He demanded to be looked at, admired even, and he probably knew it.

“I’m training,” you answered, as if it were obvious.

“Not in my gym,” he snapped. “People will think I’m training you.”

“And is that such a terrible thing?” you asked with a smile.

“With that technique, yes.” Your smile died, and heat flushed your cheeks.

Fine. You were terrible.

“I’ll pay you.”

“I don’t want your money.” He said it easily, carelessly.

“Please, I’m genuinely interested. I want to see how far I can go.” You tried to insist.

“I don’t care. I’m not training you.”

You sighed, frustration coiling tight in your chest.

“I promise I won’t be a nuisance.”

“You already are.”

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes.

“I’ll stay in a corner. I won’t bother anyone. I’ll pay for every hour.”

“The gym isn’t set up for you.” Lando folded his arms, and you tried desperately not to stare at the way the muscles shifted beneath his skin.

“What?”

“We don’t have women’s bathrooms or showers. This has been a men-only space since it opened. I’m sorry, there’s no place for you here.” He shrugged. “And I’m not making an exception. Renovations cost money.”

“I don’t need exclusive bathrooms. I just need you to train me. I can shower at home.” Lando frowned, and only then did he actually look at you, as if seeing you for the first time.

“That’s gross.”

You rolled your eyes at the jab, trying to ignore the fresh rise of heat in your cheeks. This was bordering on humiliating. You had never sounded so pitiable.

“I don’t know how else to ask.”

“I don’t care. I already said I’m not training you.” His posture settled back into something fortified, his gaze sweeping you like he was hunting for flaws. “You know where the exit is.”

You bit the inside of your cheek and stood frozen for a moment, unable to believe that was truly all he had to offer. With a long exhale, you turned and walked away, a knot of disappointment sinking under your ribs.

But that wasn’t the end. Because you returned the next morning, far earlier.

It was 10 a.m. when you stepped into the gym, now completely empty. You tossed your bag into a corner near the punching bags, slipped off your shoes at the entrance, and began striking the bag with clumsy, inexperienced blows, trying to imagine how you were supposed to approach this man and convince him to train you.

You knew you couldn’t come to Lando as a journalism student. Given his reputation and his history with the press, he would tell you to fuck off before you even finished saying the word “project.” No, the only way to reach him was through what he still loved, even if that passion didn’t quite beat in your own blood.

How hard could it be? Ten months tethered to boxing, just long enough to uncover who he was, what he’d lived, and all the things the internet refused to say about Lando Norris. Then you’d graduate. Then you could build something stable. You only needed the idiot to soften—maybe if he saw how persistent you were, he would eventually say yes—

“You again. Classes start in four hours.”

Lando’s voice cracked across the empty gym, and you heard his footsteps rushing down the stairs.

You followed the sound and caught sight of his curls descending from what looked like a raised office before he closed in on you, barely three meters away, his stride sharp, his expression carved from ice.

“I’m not enrolled in any of your classes,” you said.

“Of course not. Which is exactly why you need to leave.”

“I’m paying for the hours I use.”

You said it as though the logic were unbreakable, turning back to the bag even though you had no idea what you were actually doing.

Lando stared at you in silence for a few seconds. You tried your best not to feel like an idiot dissolving under his gaze.

“You need wraps. You’re going to hurt yourself.”

“I don’t have any.”

“Oh, brilliant,” he mocked. “You claim to care about boxing and don’t own the basic essentials.”

“Lend me yours. I’m sure you have extras.”

Lando let out a short laugh, almost surprised.

“Get out of my gym, kid.”

His voice held no room for discussion.

You ignored him, focusing on your hopeless punches. Sweat was already gathering on your skin, your breath uneven, your knuckles reddening painfully. You heard Lando click his tongue before stepping closer.

“Spread your feet.” His leg slid between yours, nudging you into a shoulder-width stance. You swallowed a startled sound. “Chin down.” Before you could react, obey, he pushed your chin down with a single finger. “And you hit from your hips.” His hands rested on your hips, respectful but firm, guiding the movement you lacked. His body radiated warmth against your back.

There was nothing improper in his touch, nothing predatory. And yet a spark lit deep inside you, unwelcome and undeniable.

“Hit with my hips?”

“From your hips,” he corrected. “Your whole upper body moves when you punch, whether it’s your right or your left. Using your whole body gives you more power, and it keeps you from injuring yourself if you rely only on your arms or wrists.”

You nodded awkwardly, copying each instruction. Lando stared back with a flat expression when you lifted your head, almost as if you were expecting praise.

“Now get out of my gym.” That was all he said before turning away.

You left that morning with more than disappointment. You carried a thin thread of hope with you too. Maybe if you kept pushing, something—anything—might give.

What did you have so far?

Nothing.

Only the certainty that he really did have the shitty attitude all the other journalists complained about.

The following days unfolded much the same. Lando had no intention of yielding, and neither did you. Sometimes you arrived later, when the gym was busier, and Max —the man who worked with him, as you’d learned— would watch you from afar with that amused little grin that declared you won’t last as long as you think before turning away to mind his own business. Lando remained a perpetual headache, always telling you to get out of his gym yet never truly lifting a finger to remove you. Most of the time you gave in anyway, only to return hours later.

The Thursday of the next week you had early classes, so you couldn’t be at the gym at ten. But you were there at three in the afternoon, when the place teemed with students and men training in every corner. You slipped off your shoes near the entrance, pulled your water bottle from your bag, and returned to the same spot you’d claimed over the past days, punching the heavy bag with the only scrap of instruction Lando had begrudged you once.

Your knuckles throbbed against the canvas, and your stance felt clumsy. You felt small, inelegant, and painfully aware of yourself every time your gaze drifted and caught someone watching you with mild, mocking amusement.

You swallowed it whole. You’d already begun this. Even if you still had time to change your idea and the angle of your project, you were far past retreat. It was a sport, and Lando didn’t speak to journalists, which meant there was little recent information circulating about him. Perfect, you thought. A personal project.

“You’re going to injure yourself if you keep that up.”

You could already recognize Lando’s voice when it cut through the noise, forever serious, forever weary, as if speaking to you cost him something.

“If you’re that worried, you could always teach me,” you replied, a sly little smile tugging at your mouth.

“I’m sure there are plenty of trainers willing to work with you. Boxers who actually train women. Go to them,” he insisted.

“I don’t want them. I want you.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“Fine.” You shrugged, but kept punching.

You saw Lando roll his eyes before he walked off, and then Max approached you for the first time since you’d begun this idiocy.

“I’m not a coach, but you might want to move,” Max Fewtrell said, nearly laughing at the confusion on your face. “The whole point of hitting a bag is eventually leveling up to fight an actual person. And a real person won’t stand still waiting to be hit.” He lifted his shoulders in a mild shrug.

You glanced at the bag, then at your feet. He seemed to hear the gears squealing inside your head as you tried to piece the idea together.

“Move around. Your opponent will move with you. You don’t want to hit them as they come in or you’ll lose your balance. Circle the bag and hit it,” he explained, patient and kind.

“Oh.”

You nodded.

“Come,” he said, guiding you to the back of the room.

You understood where you were once he switched on the light inside a small shed-like storage room, revealing shelves stuffed with equipment. Gloves, wraps, speed bags, more heavy bags, cones for drills, everything you could imagine. He reached the section with the hand wraps and pulled out a black pair, simple and tightly rolled, the label noting approximately four meters.

“If you keep hitting the bag barehanded, you’ll injure your knuckles or your wrists.” Max held the wraps out to you, and you took them almost instantly. “Do you know how to put them on?” You shook your head, quick and sheepish. He smiled, as if the obvious one here was him for even asking.

He stepped closer and held out a hand for the wraps. He unrolled one until it was a long ribbon of cloth and took your right hand, extending it between you both as he began wrapping it with strategic precision.

“Two turns around the wrist. Wrap each finger so your knuckles are protected. Two more horizontal passes. And whatever’s left goes back around the wrist,” he said as he worked, showing you visually how it should be done. “Now the other.”

Max was strangely gentle as he held your wrist with one hand and wrapped the fabric with the other. He felt so much more approachable than Lando, and you thought maybe he could give you what Lando refused.

“You said you’re not a trainer… so you’re a boxer?” you murmured, lifting your gaze to study his face as he passed the wrap over your knuckles.

“Not really. I just work with Lando.”

You nodded.

“As friends?” you tried again.

“As friends, yes.”

Max finished adjusting the wrap on your other hand, and you flexed your fingers, testing how it felt. You nodded, approving the sensation.

“How do I convince him?” you asked after a few quiet seconds, just before he could speak. You saw him hesitate, weighing whether to answer.

“Look. He’s right. If you’re genuinely interested, there are plenty of great trainers, even better than Lando, with more patience and better tempers,” he said, rolling his eyes, “who would happily train you. I think you’re wasting your time.”

You exhaled, heavy.

“But you’re just as stubborn as he is,” Max added with a shrug. “So I have no idea which one of you will crack first.”

He walked out of the equipment room and you followed a moment later. Returning to your spot, you noticed the wraps made everything infinitely more comfortable. They were rough against your knuckles, but they softened the impact and kept the bag from biting into your skin. A makeshift cushion.

You stayed there for a long while, replaying the corrections you’d been given as you occasionally watched Lando instruct the others, the younger kids, the teens, the young adults who stood around him eager to learn. You almost envied them, seeing how naturally Norris behaved with them. Less tense, more playful. Good grief, you even saw him smile. He looked younger like that, lighter.

“Take those off. Where did you get them?” His tone was not the one he used with the others.

“Max gave them to me,” you replied, frowning slightly.

“They’re mine, and I don’t want you using them. People will think—”

“That you’re training me?” you cut in, raising a brow as he hummed a curt confirmation. “Heaven forbid someone thinks that.” You rolled your eyes.

But you were already peeling off the wraps, frustrated. You were lucky you liked things difficult; otherwise you’d have thrown in the towel long ago and told both the project and Lando —especially Lando— to go to hell.

“You’ll live,” he muttered, taking the first wrap while you removed the second. “Besides, you need to buy your own things if you plan on staying.”

You looked up at him immediately.

“I thought you wanted me gone.”

“Max told me you paid six months in advance.” Lando grumbled, and you frowned.

“That's…” something in you warned you to shut up. “You said you wouldn’t take my money. What changed your mind?” you asked, brow lifted.

“He already spent it, so I can’t return it,” he muttered through his teeth, snatching the second wrap and walking away, his broad back retreating across the room.

Only then did you allow yourself a quiet, incredulous laugh. When you glanced up, Max was already watching you from the second floor, wearing a conspiratorial smile. You mouthed a thank you toward him, soft and secret, meant only for him to understand.

At least someone's on your side.

Lando didn’t bother you again after that. In truth, he simply proceeded to ignore you… most of the time.

Which suited you well enough. It allowed you to keep training, even if you were still nowhere near your true goal. The weeks crawled forward, slow and stubborn. You managed to hand in the first draft of your final project to your professor, correcting the loose threads you hadn’t fully understood, all while continuing to train on your own every afternoon.

Eventually you had to tell your parents about your extracurricular adventures, once they began asking why you were getting home later than usual. Your father, of course, was more than delighted by your decision, because you hadn’t been able to confess that all this was only to secure that final grade. You blamed his earnest excitement for your cowardice, for the way the truth stuck to the back of your tongue and never made it out.

Which brought you to today. You’d gotten out of class an hour later than usual, which meant training later, and leaving the gym later as well. You sat on the carpeted floor, slipping on your shoes while you waited for your father to text you that he was outside, after insisting on picking you up because of the hour.

It was dark outside, and Lando was beginning to close the gym when you were finishing up.

“I need to lock up, and you’re in my way.” You rolled your eyes at Lando’s voice.

There was something almost amusing about how he always seemed particularly sour around you, as if your very existence grated on him. Ever since he’d given up and grudgingly allowed you to use the gym whenever you pleased, instead of kicking you out and forcing you to surrender, you’d grown slightly more comfortable. Looser. Less on edge.

You couldn’t say the same for him.

“Sorry. I’m just waiting for my ride,” you said as you tightened your laces.

“Then wait outside.”

“It’s dark and freezing.”

“Do I look like I care?”

You laughed, but didn’t argue, and for some reason, Lando didn’t push further. You could feel his gaze on you as you texted your father, sitting on his grimy carpet with sweat in your hair and your cheeks flushed from exertion.

“Why do you push yourself so hard?” he asked suddenly, breaking the silence you hadn’t even noticed had thickened between you.

You looked up, startled by the almost intimate air that had settled there. You raised a shoulder.

“Once an idea lodges itself in my head, it’s hard to shake it off. I… fixate, I suppose,” you answered truthfully.

A controlled honesty. A half-truth.

“You’re a real pain in the ass.”

“I’ve been told.”

Silence. You returned your attention to your phone.

“Here.”

Before you even lifted your gaze, something soft yet firm hit you square on the head, bouncing into your lap while you let out a startled yelp. The wraps. The ones he’d taken from you days ago because it annoyed him to see you using them.

“Why—?”

“Monday to Friday. Six a.m. I want you here, and you better be on time,” he said, deadly serious.

“But I have classes at ten…”

“Do you want me to train you or not?” His stare somehow hardened, as if he already regretted the offer.

“Yes sir!” You shot up from the floor like a spring, clutching the wraps awkwardly in your hands.

“Then don’t argue. Six a.m., we start. You’ll be doing strength work, and I’ll teach you how to hit the heavy bag properly. After that, I’m putting you to spar with my other fighters.”

You nodded at every word he spoke. Because the closer he allowed you to stand, the more bridges you could build with the people around him, and the easier your work would become.

“But if you miss a single day, it’s over.”

His tone was iron.

“If you skip even once, that’s it. You’ll take your things and leave, and you won’t bother me again.”

“Yes sir.”

“Don’t call me sir.”

“Yes s— yes.” You cleared your throat, mildly embarrassed.

“Now get out.” He turned his back to switch off the lights.

“My dad isn’t here ye—” you began.

“Out of the gym. I need to close,” he growled before plunging the room into complete darkness.

You stepped back reluctantly, stumbling a little as you fumbled toward the faint outdoor light and slipped through the heavy door, shutting it behind you.

You had to wait for your father in the cold bite of late autumn, under the thick darkness of seven in the evening. Lando didn’t come out, and you didn’t ask to go back in.

You just went home.

Waking up early the next day was the hardest part. You were never the type to rise before dawn for your classes; one spare hour was usually enough to shower, get dressed, and grant your body and mind the sleep they truly hungered for. Now the sun hadn’t even considered lifting its face from the horizon when you stepped out of your dad’s car. Two minutes to 6 a.m. The gym lights were already burning, which meant Lando was awake. And waiting.

“Good luck, sweetheart. I’ll be back in two hours.”

You kissed your dad’s cheek before climbing out. You clutched your hoodie closer, shielding your neck, and pushed the gate open to slip inside. The cold was nearly identical to the air outside; Lando always kept the place cool, never warm enough to make the world beyond feel like a shock.

You kicked off your shoes in the entrance, staring at the empty gym and feeling like a stranger once again. You left your things in the same cubby as always and walked in.

“Did you eat breakfast?” Lando’s voice startled you. You watched him descend the stairs with that measured, deliberate pace.

He already looked fully awake, energized, composed. His curled hair perfectly kept, his jaw freshly shaved.

“Nope,” you replied honestly, without thinking.

“First mistake. You need to eat before training or you’ll burn out. Less energy, shorter stamina.” His tone had an edge as he passed you, heading toward the second wing of the gym.

An area you had never seen before.

“When I eat before training my stomach hurts. Then i wanna throw up.” Lando turned to you, almost affronted.

“Then wake up earlier and eat two hours before training, but eat.” You grimaced but didn’t argue.

No point in picking a fight with him.

He guided you through the second wing, filled with weight machines like any conventional gym. Same orderly rhythm as the rest of his space; two of the four walls were enormous mirrors. Machines for legs, machines for arms. Some you couldn’t make sense of, others you vaguely recognized from photos or half-watched videos online.

“Routine matters. Every day we’ll do the same thing.” He stopped beside a leg press. “Weights first. Build strength. Add muscle mass. Then we move to the bag. Then sparring.”

You nodded, shifting anxiously.

“I’m going to fix your technique, because right now it’s atrocious,” he continued. “And eventually, when you make decent progress, you’ll join the others in the afternoon. I don’t care that they’re men and you’re a woman. I’ll tell them to hit you like an equal.” You swallowed and nodded. “Understood?”

“Yes, sir.” Lando narrowed his eyes, and you rushed to correct yourself. “Yeah. Yes, I understand.”

“Now watch.”

The next hour unfolded exactly as you feared. He forced you to lift weights until your arms and legs shook, until fatigue wrapped itself around you like a stubborn fog. And he did everything alongside you, twice your weights, flawless form, a quiet elegance that sparked a sting of envy. Halfway through, you realized you were intruding on his usual routine.

He did this every day; staying in shape, training for himself rather than teaching. And now you were part of that cadence.

After weights, he guided you through footwork, the basic lower-body movements you had to internalize. He made you use your own body weight to build control and force for later strikes. He even put you through a circuit that left you sweaty and gasping like your lungs had shrunk, humiliation prickling under your skin each time you caught him biting the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing outright.

“Enough for today,” he said when you were collapsed on the floor, catching your breath. Sweat dripped from your hair, your face prickled with heat.

“But you said I’d hit the bag and we’d spar.” You attempted to protest, nearly tripping over yourself as you tried to stand. Your arms trembled uselessly.

“You’ll faint if you keep going.” There was teasing in his voice, subtle but unmistakable. “Besides, you have plenty to master before we advance to sparring.”

You let your body fall back onto the mat, grumbling at your racing heartbeat. He almost made you regret your choices. Almost. Because you were sure he was doing it on purpose, the bastard.

Pushing you to the edge, draining you so thoroughly you’d start believing quitting was your own idea.

“Same time tomorrow?” you asked.

“Same time,” he confirmed, turning his back.

You watched him position himself before one of the punching bags, and the urge to leave, to give him space, swept through you. So you obeyed it.

You peeled yourself off the floor with clumsy effort.

“You can use the showers. You stink,” he said casually.

“You said the gym isn’t set up for women,” you reminded him.

“It's just you and me now. Nobody's going to see you using the men's showers.”

You shrugged, taking it as permission, and dragged yourself to the showers. Men’s showers, obviously. You winced at the lack of curtains, locked the door, and finally let the hot water rinse away the sweat and heat that had begun to cling to you like a second skin.

Your arms ached as you washed your hair, but there was a strange glow around you, some kind of quiet revelation. You still knew very little about Lando, but only three weeks had passed.

Three weeks out of almost ten months. You could do this. Truly. The goal no longer felt unreachable from where you stood.

You took your time drying off and slipping into fresh clothes. When you walked out, clean and light and tired in a pleasant way, you noticed Lando was still training. He moved with the certainty of someone shaped by years of repetition. His feet quick, his movements deliberate, almost premeditated.

“So...” you began.

“See you tomorrow.” He cut you off before you could ask anything.

“Yep.” You swallowed the awkwardness and headed to the exit.

Maybe another day.

You put your shoes back on and left the gym without complaint, settling outside to wait for your dad to pick you up.

Over the following month, you slipped into a routine that was almost pleasant. Lando was, to your delightful surprise, just as structured as you—if not more. You trained every single weekday morning without fail, from six to eight. Then, you would leave the gym and head straight to your university classes. Most mornings, you found yourself with time to spare, giving you a quiet window to polish upcoming assignments or study for exams. The afternoons became the sole pocket of the day where you allowed yourself to chip away at your research before drifting off to an early sleep.

Your classes droned on as they always had. Listen, take notes, research, present, repeat. The narrative thread had always been the most captivating part of your degree, even if you still had professors who accused you of being far too poetic in every assignment. But you were so thoroughly consumed by this new rhythm—by the obsessive training and the desperate need to keep performing at your usual standard—that you failed to notice how quickly everything else began to fray at the edges.

And it was, quite literally, *everything* else.

Soon, you forgot to cook in the evenings, only remembering your empty kitchen when you unzipped your bag at university to find nothing inside. In that same quiet drift, you let slip the planned outings with your friends, and the cozy evenings spent with your mother watching movies. Slowly, your entire world narrowed, orbiting solely around your studies and the sweat of the gym.

Every time things began to feel a fraction easier, Lando pushed harder. He stacked more weight on the machines, introduced new techniques, or demanded a faster pace. Perhaps that was precisely what made it so addictive—the knowledge that he was constantly, relentlessly forcing you past your own boundaries, offering no reprieve.

And yet, he never offered a single word of praise.

Lando was inherently a man of few words, or so it seemed to you. He had a way of cleanly cutting off any attempt you made to converse or pry, which was terribly frustrating. This assignment was dragging you far outside your semi-professional comfort zone; while you were used to people opening up easily once you knew which questions to ask, Lando was an emotional brick wall. Thick, imposing, his sheer presence made you want to take a step back.

It wasn't something you were used to. And that only made it more intriguing. You became obsessed with how much you could pull from this story, how much you could evolve as a journalist if you could just break through. At some point, the level of dedication you were pouring into this should have probably been alarming, but there was no one around to pull the reins.

The only time you managed to draw your father's attention was when you started leaving practice later and later. You went from keeping him waiting for fifteen minutes outside the gym to making him honk his horn repeatedly before you finally emerged. Yet, he would always greet you with a sweet smile as you rushed out, cheeks flushed and hair damp, jogging to hop into the passenger seat. Eventually, the delay grew even longer. There were days you’d ask him to pick you up thirty minutes later than usual just to save him from waiting anxiously outside. Other days, you simply forgot the time entirely.

You had been living in this haze for two weeks when your father finally ran out of patience. You were mid-workout when he walked straight into the gym to find you. Lando was guiding your technique, holding up the focus mitts inside the ring, when the heavy thud of the door closing echoed through the space. Both of you snapped your heads toward the sound, as if it were the only thing capable of breaking the trance you were under.

"Dad," you gasped, a sudden, hurried squeak as your old man slowly approached the ring. He wasn't even looking at you directly, too busy marveling at his surroundings to care about anything else. "What are you doing here? It's still early—"

"It's almost nine in the morning," he interrupted, his tone distracted.

"Really?" you mumbled under your breath, scrambling to find your phone to check. 8:48 AM. *Shit.* "Sorry, I lost track of time. Let me get changed and—" You began gathering your things in a frantic rush.

"Good morning. I'm John. Father to this creature." Before you knew it, your dad had stepped up to extend a hand to Lando, who—you only just realized—was no longer standing beside you in the ring, but had already hopped down to greet him.

"Lando Norris," he introduced himself politely, shaking your father's hand.

"Yes, I know who you are." The grin on your dad's face was almost embarrassing; he was looking at Lando with the kind of awe you usually only saw when he was watching sports on television.

"Dad," you muttered through gritted teeth, climbing down from the canvas. That was when you saw Lando smile—a genuine, amused curve of his lips that felt so entirely out of character it threw you completely off balance.

"My daughter and I used to watch you on TV," your father said, offering it up as a crucial piece of trivia. Lando had the decency to look genuinely flattered.

"No, we didn't," you rushed to interject.

"Well, *I* followed your career almost from the very beginning. Back when you were younger and training under Zak." Lando let out a soft "Ah," which would have been comical if you weren't currently on the verge of dying of embarrassment. "It’s an honor that you're the one training my girl. She loved boxing when she was a kid, and her mother and I are thrilled to see her taking it up again."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes. She used to be quite good." Your dad nodded with a pride that made you feel incredibly small. "How is she doing now? Is she keeping up?"

You averted your eyes the moment Lando looked over at you. You had rarely seen that particular smirk on his face—the one whose meaning you could never quite decode. He kept his professional boundaries so strictly defined that he rarely smiled or laughed with you; seeing this side of him as he conversed with your father felt surreal.

"She's doing well. She's good," Lando said carefully. His voice carried a rare, soft note of genuine honesty. It was far too gentle for someone who hadn't given you a single direct compliment since your training began. You could swear your father's eyes lit up with pure joy.

"Is she?" your dad sighed, sounding utterly delighted.

"Dad," you almost growled, desperate to snap him out of his reverie.

It worked. Your father pulled his gaze away from Lando and frowned at you, a mix of confusion and mild irritation crossing his face.

"What are you still doing standing there? You're going to be late for class," he scolded, leaving you mildly offended and scowling. "Go take a shower, you stink." You opened your mouth to protest, but your father was already shooing you away with his hand as if you were merely blocking the view, his attention already drifting back to Lando.

You had no choice but to obey.

You rushed into the showers, moving in a blur. You could faintly hear the low murmur of your father's voice mixing with Lando's, but from where you stood with the water rushing down, you couldn't make out a single word. Every now and then, a burst of laughter drifted through, making you scrub faster—driven by both the panic of leaving them alone together and the sharp reminder that you were incredibly late. More than ever.

You managed to shower in ten minutes and throw your clothes on in another five. You were still shoving things into your bag as you emerged from the locker room.

"I'm done! Ready to go," you announced, stumbling your way back to them.

Fortunately, your dad seemed to be wrapping up the conversation.

"A pleasure to finally meet you. Now, I must go drop my baby off at university." You tried to offer a tight smile. You were past the age of being genuinely embarrassed by your father babying you in front of people, but having Lando’s amused gaze fixed on you made the moment feel deeply mortifying anyway.

It was the most relaxed and normal you had ever seen him.

"Of course. Likewise, have a great day," Lando said, stepping forward to shake your father’s hand once more.

"You should come over for dinner sometime," your dad chuckled.

"You invited him to dinner?!" you gasped, the words finally registering in your brain.

Your father clicked his tongue and nudged you by the shoulders to get you moving before you could protest any further. Lando simply gave a polite nod of farewell, leaving you to wrestle your way out of the gym while trying to pry answers out of your father.

"Why would you invite him to dinner? Are you crazy?"

"Relax," your father sighed, rolling his eyes as he used your name like a gentle weight. "I was just being polite."

"Polite," you muttered, sliding into the passenger seat and quickly clicking your seatbelt into place. "What did you even tell him? Did you talk about me?"

"I just met one of the most brilliant stars in boxing, and your biggest worry is that I spent fifteen minutes talking about you," your father remarked, dripping with sarcasm. You let out a huff, your cheeks burning slightly as you looked out the window, finally shutting your mouth.

Perhaps he was right.

Perhaps you were just being incredibly paranoid.

But you remained paranoid for another week.

The training sessions with Lando began to feel a bit more like a chore, mostly because you were far too busy trying to keep the anxiety from registering on your face. You practically vibrated in place whenever you didn't have something to occupy your hands. You never quite knew if Lando simply didn't notice, or if he was just being polite enough not to pry. What you did know was that your gaze was heavy and entirely lacking in subtlety; he caught you staring more than once—long past the point of politeness—as you analyzed and weighed his facial expressions and body language, trying to decipher whether he was annoyed with you or not.

Then again, Lando looked angry about ninety percent of the time. But he never seemed exceptionally angry about anything involving you.

Nothing, at least, that suggested he had discovered some displeasing truth about your motives.

By the end of the week, you had convinced yourself that he was simply grumpy at a level that was... well, entirely normal for him. Nothing more.

Except Lando wasn’t just in a bad mood. While you had grown accustomed to his natural curtness and strict professionalism inside the gym, it had always been just that—until now. For over a month, you were fairly certain he hadn't been taking you seriously; that he was merely testing you, waiting for you to quit so your presence wouldn't claim too much of his time. But during this past week, it was almost... as if you both genuinely enjoyed each other's company.

Almost.

He was still an insufferable coach, carrying that disgustingly arrogant attitude typical of a retired star who still kept in peak condition. You absolutely loathed the way he demonstrated how to throw punches—making it look effortless, almost fluid and stylish—while your own body was left broken, patterned with the occasional dark bruise.

You managed to complete four and a half months of training before the university's Christmas break arrived.

It surprised you when Lando claimed the days surrounding Christmas as a definitive rest period; the gym would remain closed for the week. A few days later, Max mentioned that they would both be traveling to visit their parents, so you didn't question the decision.

Mostly because, in truth, the timing was perfect.

Upon returning from the holidays in January, you were required to present a draft progress report on the research project you were so desperately focused on. In reality, you had barely scraped together any of the investigation or the actual writing. Lando was excessively guarded with any information regarding himself—undoubtedly a habit born from years of dealing with gossips and reporters. It didn't help that the internet offered very little about his sudden retirement or the reasons behind it. Nor was there any trace of information regarding Isack Hadjar, the rising star Lando had knocked out in his very last fight before stepping away from the ring.

Though you were beginning to piece together where the threads might lead, you couldn't build a thesis on mere assumptions and whispers. You needed hard, concrete facts.

The gym closed on December 22nd, leaving you with exactly five days of actual rest to make headway on the project. You sat for hours in front of your computer, staring at a semi-empty document that you eventually filled with hollow, rushed words born of sheer panic. You had nothing. Absolutely nothing.

To make matters worse, you had grown so accustomed to the daily grind of training that you had to admit to feeling a strange, hollow ache during those five days of stillness.

But after the blur of Christmas family traditions—feasting extravagantly for three consecutive days, opening small, mutual gifts, and torturing yourself for hours in front of your university laptop—the gym finally reopened.

You knew this because your desperation had mounted to the point where, since the afternoon of December 25th, you had begun patrolling the block just to see if Lando had returned.

By the 27th, the world had corrected itself.

"You're back," was the first thing you said as you pushed the heavy entrance door open and saw Lando wrapping his hands.

He looked up, caught off guard for a fleeting second. And perhaps it was just your imagination, but his expression seemed to soften slightly the moment he saw you standing there.

"What are you doing here? We're closed until the New Year."

"Well, the door was open," you shrugged, stepping closer and burying your hands deep into the pockets of your jacket. It was warm inside, a stark contrast to the biting frost painting the streets outside. "And you're here before the New Year, too."

"Couldn't stay at my parents' place for that long," he said simply, his focus returning to the scarlet wraps in his hands.

The detail might have slipped out by accident, but you pretended not to know about it anyway.

"So you visited your parents," you smiled, leaning back against the ropes of the ring.

"Yeah. Max and I went together."

You knit your brows slightly.

"You're in a good mood," you let slip without thinking. The comment earned you a bewildered look from Lando, but the corners of his mouth twitched, as if he were trying to suppress a smile. "You don't usually talk this much."

You watched him roll his eyes before he countered, "That’s because we aren't friends."

"Right," you sighed. "Still, you're in a good mood. I mean, I just learned you actually have parents, and we've known each other for nearly half a year."

"Everyone has parents," he said, as if stating the most obvious law of nature, looking at you as though you were an idiot while he finished fastening the wrap on his left hand and began on the right.

"No kidding," you retorted, your voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Shut up and wrap your hands."

Lando shook his head gently, but you caught the faint smile lingering on his face. You didn't want the conversation to end; it was the warmest interaction you’d had in months. Perhaps visiting his family had relaxed him enough to let his guard drop, if only a fraction.

"Are we training?" you asked, stepping through the ropes into the ring.

"What else did you come here for?" He arched an eyebrow, and you merely shrugged, shedding your jacket and bending down to pick up a hand wrap from a gym bag overflowing with them.

You were just beginning to wind the fabric around your left hand when Lando stepped close.

"You're doing it wrong," he said, taking the wrap from your fingers and beginning to wind it himself. "You're still quite incompetent, considering we've been training together for almost half a year."

And just like that, he was back.

"First, you wrap each of your knuckles like this. Not too tight, not too loose," he explained, threading the cloth behind each of your fingers, crossing over your knuckles in precise, protective patterns. "Leave enough room so you can close your fist." He squeezed your fingers closed to test it, then made you open them again. "Then the thumb... then the wrist..."

You let him work in silence, simply watching him. His hands were slightly rough, but not nearly as calloused as you would expect from a professional fighter. He probably used some sort of lotion. He likely cared for his skin, because standing this close, you were certain you caught the faint, clean scent of melon cologne. You inhaled quietly as he finished your right hand and tossed you another roll of slightly soiled white wrap.

"Now you do the other."

You made a face as he stepped away, but you tried your best to mimic his handiwork. It wasn't nearly as neat—especially since you had to use your non-dominant hand—but it was something. If you did a poor job of it, Lando didn't say a word. He simply walked away, his back to you, until he turned around holding a pair of gloves.

Only when he tossed them to you and headed to the corner to retrieve another pair did the realization hit you.

"Are we sparring?" you inquired, your muscles tensing slightly.

Until now, the closest you had come to combat in the ring was hitting the focus mitts. It was a dance of shadow-sparring where Lando was fully engaged—feigning strikes, demanding constant eye contact, forcing you to follow his movements like a moth drawn to a flame.

But you had never, ever sparred with him directly.

Sure, you had sparred with some of the newer guys who joined the gym—the scrawniest, most clumsy of the lot.

But this was an immense leap.

Lando looked up, his gaze carrying a playful, teasing edge that sent a nervous flutter to the pit of your stomach.

"What, are you scared?" he smirked, stepping forward as he pulled on his gloves.

"No," you shot back quickly. "It's just... we haven't sparred until now." You hurried to slip your gloves on, your movements clumsy, fueled by a sudden rush of adrenaline.

"From now on, we're splitting our training hours evenly," he explained, beginning to circle you, slipping into a flawless defensive stance. You quickly copied him, facing him down. "One hour of lifting and conditioning. One hour of sparring."

"You and me?"

"And any of your other classmates. Not just the fresh, clumsy ones."

You barely managed a nod before Lando connected a sharp, light blow to the center of your stomach. You weren't ready, and that was all the invitation he needed to begin pushing you.

"Focus. Eyes on me."

"But we aren't wearing headgear!" you squeaked almost immediately, taking a hasty step back. He closed the distance instantly, hunting you down.

"Then keep your hands up and protect your head."

Despite the warning, Lando barely touched your head. It was unsafe to do so, and he knew that better than anyone. Instead, he chose to land precise taps on your arms, intentionally slipping past your guard to give you playful nudges against your forehead—gentle reminders to protect your face whenever you spent too much time defending your ribs.

It was as frustrating as it was exhilarating. He was so incredibly trained, disarming you with an ease that made you feel utterly helpless; you probably only managed to land about seven clean hits during the entire session. Yet, Lando laughed every time he caught you off balance, looking genuinely amused rather than just dutifully teaching, though he still took the time to instruct you amidst the exchange of blows.

"Keep your elbows in."

"Watch your chin."

"Stop crossing your feet or you'll lose your balance!"

"Remember to breathe with every punch. Inhale, exhale."

"From the hips, throw it from the hips."

By the time Lando decided you had had enough, you were drenched in sweat, your lungs burning as you struggled to find air.

"Catch your breath," he ordered, as if breathing weren't a desperate biological struggle at that moment. "Water comes after."

To be fair, he was sweating too. Considerably less, but sweat nonetheless—hardly surprising, considering he had kept you moving at a relentless pace for nearly twenty or thirty minutes when standard rounds rarely lasted more than five. He was forcing you to control your breathing so you wouldn't collapse, conditioning you to survive three minutes of absolute, unyielding action.

It was... brilliant.

You watched him take a long draught from a water bottle before capping it and tossing it to you to drink once your breathing finally steadied. Your chest ached with a dull, warm burn.

"You have to learn to breathe through your nose. You're breathing too much through your mouth," he explained, gesturing to the lower half of his face. "A real round is three minutes, but you have to be active the entire time. They can attack you at any second, and if you don't control your breathing, you're finished."

You swallowed hard, panting heavily before twisting the cap off the bottle and drinking deeply to soothe the dry scratch in your throat.

"You're terrible at this," he remarked, his brow furrowing. "How did you convince me that you won all your fights in flyweight?"

You let out a breathy laugh.

"I might have... exaggerated a little," you finally confessed, sliding down to sit cross-legged on the canvas floor.

"Why?" he asked suddenly, his expression turning serious, yet laced with an undeniable curiosity.

A cold weight settled in the pit of your stomach. A flicker of anxiety, a quiet warning that perhaps you were letting too much slip.

"I did win a lot of my flyweight fights. Most of them," you said, opting for a half-truth. "But that was years ago. I'm out of practice." You shrugged. "You've seen how much of a boxing fan my dad is. I guess I still do it because of him. It’s why I keep trying, even though we both know I suck."

Lando made a quiet face of understanding, and for a moment, you thought the conversation would end there.

"I was awful when I started, too. I was four years old. But everyone is absolute garbage when they don't know what they're doing," he said, and you nodded along. "You can't compare someone who is picking it back up in their twenties to someone who has been doing it since they were old enough to go to school."

You pressed your lips together, quietly touched by his words. It was almost sweet—a side of him you rarely, if ever, saw.

"My dad always wanted me to follow in your footsteps," you confessed. "At first, it was because I'm his only daughter, and I suppose fathers always want to know their girls can defend themselves. You know, to be self-sufficient so no one can ever lay a finger on them." Lando nodded, listening intently. "But he’s always loved boxing. He always wanted a son who boxed, and my older brother quit. So, it was me. It had to be me."

"But you like it now, don't you?" he asked, tilting his head slightly.

You gave a soft nod, wetting your lips before answering.

"The way you teach it..." You hesitated for a beat. "If I liked it before, I think you've made me love it twice as much. You're... a really great coach."

Lando nodded slowly, his eyes locking onto yours for a few silent seconds. It was a long, suspended moment; you didn't look away either, waiting to see what he would say next. But nothing came. Not until he straightened up, and instead of addressing your compliment, he simply spoke with his usual authority:

"We're done for today. Go home, and don't come back until after the New Year," he commanded, already pulling off his gloves without looking at you. You followed suit, unstrapping your own.

"Yes, sir."

"I told you not to call me sir."

"Yes, Lando."

The days that followed were a living hell. Not only did you spend concerningly long hours glued to your laptop screen trying to force some progress on your project, but Lando had also forbidden you from training until after the New Year. And so, you found yourself trapped within the four walls of your home, compelled to keep digging into your own mind in a desperate bid to drag something useful to the surface.

As it turned out, working on the project was fun—until you actually had to work on the project.

You loved training with Lando and seeing your own progress, but when you compared your actual research notes to those of the rest of your class, you had absolutely nothing. A void, essentially. Not a single shred of the information you actually hoped to uncover. With every passing second, a quiet, suffocating anxiety bloomed inside you, fed by the looming threat of the progress draft presentation awaiting you right after the holidays.

You had two weeks.

Two. Miserable. Weeks.

And there was nothing.

Nothing in your head, and nothing on the page.

Minutes stretched into hours, and with each passing day, the stress tightened its grip because you couldn't shake the persistent feeling that you were constantly bleeding time. Sometimes your mother would slip into your room just to check on you, placing a soft, supportive kiss on your forehead; other days, she would quietly leave a plate of pancakes to lift your spirits when she saw how tense you were. But nothing truly seemed to work.

You wrote, and you erased. You spent hours spinning aimlessly in your chair, utterly paralyzed.

Celebrating the New Year felt like a temporary reprieve, even if your anxiety dragged your focus right back to the stagnant project the moment you started to actually enjoy yourself.

Seeing Lando again on January 2nd did nothing to ease the weight. You were so desperate you felt as though you might show up at the gym with a wiretap hidden on you, catching him off guard with a barrage of questions. But doing that would mean burning whatever fragile bridge you had built so far, and you couldn't afford that. You just needed a little more time. You needed to stop being so distracted, too.

"[Name]," Lando called out once more, snapping the focus mitts together to catch your eye. "Focus," he said sharply the moment you looked up.

You nodded, slipping back into position, but your mind was only half-present; the other half was drifting far away, and it showed. You felt a wave of nausea wash over you when you saw Lando sigh and look away.

"We're done for today."

"No, I'm fine, I'm just a little distracted," you finally admitted, letting out a heavy sigh. You wiped away the sweat stinging the skin beneath your nose and raised your guard again.

"I'm not going to waste my time with you if you don't want to train. I told you that from day one," he reminded you, pulling off the mitts. You inhaled sharply, deflating a little as he turned his back on you. "Go home and come back tomorrow. Rest."

You felt like you could cry.

It was stupid, really—you were just overwhelmed by university and the deadline rushing toward you like a freight train. Lando could have at least tried to show a sliver of compassion.

"Fine, yeah," you muttered under your breath, swallowing whatever passive-aggressive retort was fighting to escape.

You stripped off your gloves and wraps and called it a day.

But a single day of rest was never going to untangle the knot of stress you were carrying. You were like a guitar string being wound tighter and tighter to play a note, right on the verge of snapping.

And on the day of the review, you finally did.

Lando gave you absolutely nothing over the next two weeks. In fact, it felt like the small amount of ground you had gained with him was actively slipping away, doubling your frustration. When you finally turned in your draft, it was embarrassing. And your professor was not kind.

"What is this?" she asked, pointing to the document on her screen.

The classroom was quiet, everyone quietly focused on their own work. She had decided to call everyone up in alphabetical order to personally review the submissions sent the night before.

You leaned down beside her desk, feeling a hot flush creep up your cheeks and ears.

"I know it's not finished—" you began, but she cut you off immediately.

"It's more than that. It's poor. Frankly, it's embarrassing. Don't think I don't notice how you're trying to convince me—and yourself—that you know something through your writing." You sighed, hanging your head slightly. Your stomach ached; you had never turned in such a terrible piece of work in your entire academic life. "Your concept is brilliant, [Name], truly. But you have nothing here. What have you been doing these past few months? Because you certainly haven't been working on this document."

You pressed your lips together, wanting to scream that it was hard. Lando was a difficult, fortress of a man, and you couldn't just pivot to a new topic at the start of the second semester. If you failed this course, you wouldn't be able to present your portfolio to graduate. She seemed to read the heavy stress radiating off you, and seeing your silence, she sighed.

"I'll give you a 5.0 and mark it as incomplete. For the final submission, you need to give me something far better than a single page of text, or you won't pass my class."

You simply nodded, the severity of her words settling like lead in your mind and chest. The pressure felt like a physical weight, forcing your shoulders straight as you walked back to your desk.

That pressure stayed with you for the rest of the day. You had rescheduled your session with Lando to the afternoon that week because, honestly, your brain wouldn't let you wake up early to train when your mind was consumed by the dread of the review. Though, in hindsight, training with him after a humiliating evaluation was a thousand times worse.

Maybe it was the accumulated stress, or maybe it was the fact that when you arrived, there were still students from his previous class lingering around—people who definitely heard every sharp correction he threw your way and saw every time he tapped your nose with the mitts to force you back into the present.

"Focus, or I'm sending you home," he threatened, his voice dead serious before he snapped the mitts and held them up in front of your face.

Frustration made your punches wild and erratic. You weren't controlling your breathing, your shoulders were stiff, and at some point in the combination, the only thing you wanted was to plant a clean right hand dead center on his face.

"What the hell is wrong with you today?" Lando barked, dodging your strike with insulting ease before catching your wrist mid-air, forcing your guard down.

Bastard.

"Nothing," you spat through your teeth.

"Don't give me that shit. You're acting like a throwing-a-tantrum toddler, and you're an adult. Behave."

"Just shut up and let's keep training," you finally snapped, your voice echoing in the now-empty gym.

The last person had slipped out no more than three minutes ago, leaving the two of you entirely alone.

"Excuse me?" He tilted his head, his voice dangerously low. You'd be lying if you said it didn't frighten you a little, but anger and frustration won the fight.

"You heard me. You're being unnecessarily dense today, and I'm not in the mood. I'm tired." You finally let some of the defensive wall crumble, sounding almost small, embarrassed.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Is your life too difficult for you to focus for two hours a day on boxing?" His sarcastic, condescending tone sent a sharp spark of fury through your veins.

You rolled your eyes before shooting back, "Go to hell, Lando. Not all of us can box all day long. Some of us actually have lives and things we have to worry about. You could try being a little nicer."

"Nicer? Oh, come here, sweetheart. If you need me to, I can gently stroke your hair," Lando sneered, stepping toward you slowly, his eyes flashing with irritation and mockery. "Do you think this is a social club? You didn't come here to make friends. In fact, you were the one who begged me for weeks to train you, and now it turns out it's too much for you."

"I begged you to train me because I thought beneath all that bitterness, there was still a real boxer left. But I see I was wrong," you snapped, completely losing your filter. "You're just a frustrated coach who couldn't cut it, and now you take it out on your students."

The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly.

"Repeat that," Lando said, his eyes narrowing. You saw how tight his jaw was, the way he stalked you, forcing you to step back with every step he took toward you. It reached a point where you could feel the heat radiating off his skin—from the training, from the venomous words hanging between you. The silence was so heavy you could hear your own ragged breathing, and his too. "Stop shaking, and repeat exactly what just came out of your mouth."

You clenched your jaw, too. You were shaking; his observation only made you ball your hands into tight fists, wanting nothing more than to disappear. But you didn't. It was far too late to back down now, so you took a breath, muttering through your teeth.

"You're just a—"

Lando didn't let you finish. For a fraction of a second, you braced for a physical blow, but what crashed into you instead was his mouth.

It was a punishing, rough kiss, entirely stripped of any tenderness. A gasp of surprise escaped you, which he immediately smothered, consuming your lips with a desperate, aggressive hunger. You tried to push him away, but his free hand gripped your jaw with iron firmness, forcing your mouth open to receive his tongue. The invasion was wet, hot, and so entirely dominant it forced your neck to arch back.

Never in all the months you had spent training with him had the thought of his tongue in your mouth crossed your mind—and certainly not the realization of how much you would crave it.

You bit down on his lower lip until the metallic tang of blood filled your mouth, earning a low, gravelly growl from him. The rough stubble of his days-old beard scraped against your chin, and his hands, calloused and firm, slipped beneath your training shirt, squeezing your hips with a breathless urgency. He pressed you hard against his pelvis, forcing you to feel the rigid length already straining against his pants.

Oh.

"Max—" you stammered, trying to speak without moaning as Lando dragged his lips down to press feverish kisses against your neck. "Wait—Max—"

"Stop talking about Max." His hands slid down to grip the back of your thighs, pulling your legs to wrap around his waist before he dropped to his knees on the canvas, guiding you down onto your back with him looming hot between your thighs. "Max is gone. It's just you and me."

The wave of relief that washed over you was instantly cut short as he set to work on your sweatpants, tugging the fabric down along with your underwear.

"I'm all sweaty," you protested, trying in vain to stay his hands. But Lando was stronger, driven by a singular, unyielding focus.

"Good. Slips in easier," he murmured, his voice thick and breathless. "I'm going to put that pretty mouth of yours to better use than complaining."

You rolled your eyes, muttering under your breath about what an asshole he was even now, your cheeks burning with a cocktail of exertion, anger, and desire. He gave a mocking tilt of his head as he kicked your shoes aside, finally leaving you bare from the waist down.

"Oh? Did the princess get upset?" he teased, gripping your hips to drag you flush against him. It was only then, as you saw his face hover near your knees, that you realized he was at least attentive enough not to just plunge right in.

"Learn to shut up," you rasped, grabbing a handful of his curls and pulling him down against your center.

For a second, you thought he might offer some sarcastic retort, but instead, he simply went to work. He forced your legs wider apart and parted you with a low groan, his flat tongue sliding over your clitoris before sucking on it aggressively. Your back arched off the mat at the sensation, bordering on a delicious ache, and your hips shifted restlessly.

"Stay still," he murmured, pulling back for a brief second before diving right back in. His hands clamped down on your thighs, his fingers digging into your skin as he drank you in greedily.

You let your head fall back onto the canvas, gripping his dark curls and pulling hard. You weren't gentle either; you gave him no room to breathe, more than once trying to lock your legs around his head in retaliation. But every time you did, he seemed to take it as a personal challenge, lapping at you with a fierce intensity that shattered your resolve.

He offered no mercy. He fought back against every squeeze of your thighs, his rough stubble scratching against your sensitive skin while his tongue moved frantically, shifting between overstimulating your center and dipping low into your heat to gather your slick.

Just as your climax began to build—sharp and demanding—Lando pulled away, leaving you to let out an frustrated groan at the sudden loss.

"What were you saying?" Lando asked, his voice raw and completely out of breath. His dark gaze remained fixed on you as you watched him pull at his own clothes. "Just a frustrated coach?"

You let out a breathless laugh, completely disbelieving, as you watched him free himself and stroke his length. The sight was dizzying.

The corners of Lando's mouth glistened with your wetness, his eyes dark and heavy. His training shirt was damp with sweat around the collar, hitched up just enough to reveal the sharp lines of his lower abdomen. His erection disappeared into his fist with every solid stroke. He wasn't small by any means, nor intimidatingly large, but he was thick—thick enough to make you wonder if you could slide him into your mouth without trouble.

The skin of his shaft was flushed a deep red, the head swollen with blood. He was circumcised, a detail that struck you as remarkably aesthetic.

"What's the matter? Can't handle it?" The challenge in his voice was unmistakable, and you took the bait.

"Is this your way of asking if I'm a virgin?" You arched an eyebrow, almost smiling as he shrugged with supreme arrogance. He was so incredibly full of himself.

"Maybe."

"I'm not."

"Good." Lando gripped your thighs again, dragging you down to meet him. "Because I didn't plan on being gentle even if you were."

You felt the blunt head of his length graze against your wet folds before pressing firmly against your entrance. You were surprised by how slick and open you were, yielding to him with the slightest push of his hips. Against all expectations, Lando went slowly, burying himself to the hilt with a cautious deliberation, as if—for a fleeting second—he was genuinely afraid of hurting you.

It didn't last.

"Nothing to say now?" he let out a breathless chuckle, looking down at you. His body was heavy against yours, solid and muscular. "Come on, say it again. What am I?"

You rolled your eyes, your chest rising and falling erratically before you gasped, "I said you're just a—uh... Uhm..."

His hips cut your sentence short, drawing back and driving in deep until his pelvic bone slammed against you, forcing you to bite your tongue.

"Again. I didn't hear you," the bastard taunted.

Then his pace shifted into a rhythm that became critical almost instantly. His hand pressed firmly against your lower abdomen, forcing you to tilt as he leaned in, finding the perfect, devastating angle to strike that sweet, sensitive spot inside you. It sent a violent shiver down your legs, forcing you to cling to his arms.

"That's it," he muttered. You could tell he was trying to keep his voice flat and detached, but he was breathless, thoroughly undone, watching every inch of himself slide in and out of you. "Not so talkative now, are you?" He stared down at you, and you gritted your teeth.

"The punching bag hits harder," you managed to gasp out, offering a breathless, mocking smile.

He let out a sharp laugh, but you knew you had struck his ego when he folded you back until your knees practically touched your chest, driving into you so hard that all you could do was cling to his shoulders and let out a broken whimper.

You wanted to scream at him, but you could only claw at his bare back, digging your nails deep into his skin as a quiet punishment. Lando didn't seem to care that you were leaving marks, which only frustrated you more. You hated that he held a power over you that you couldn't match, and above all, you hated how incredibly well he moved inside you. The bastard knew exactly what angle to use to keep you completely soft and unraveling; the sound of your skin meeting with every deep thrust was utterly obscene.

You could feel your release building again—fast, sharp, and overwhelming. Every thrust sent a tremor through your thighs, and you couldn't help but sink your teeth into the junction of his neck and shoulder as the climax shattered inside you. Your walls clamped tight around him, and you heard him let out a sharp hiss. He gave two more heavy, desperate thrusts before pulling out of you in a frantic rush.

You watched Lando stroke himself once more before spilling into his own hand with a low, muttered curse.

Your legs trembled as you drew them together and began to sit up, thoroughly satisfied but slightly dazed. Lando seemed to feel the exact same awkwardness as he turned his back to you, pulling his sweatpants up his legs with some difficulty with his occupied hand.

The silence fell heavy between you as you reached for your underwear with clumsy, distracted fingers.

You realized then that the anger and frustration had completely evaporated from your chest. You let out a quiet sigh, the warm haze of the orgasm still clinging to you.

"I didn't mean to scream at you earlier," you finally spoke up, cutting through the thick quiet. Lando didn't look at you; you heard him sniff quietly, just to do something, while you finished pulling up your pants. "I was just stressed about school, okay? If I don't turn this project in, I won't graduate, and I have absolutely nothing. My professor gave me an ultimatum today and... I don't know, I've just been frustrated and distracted. And I took it out on you. I'm sorry."

You heard him let out a dry chuckle, and for a second, you genuinely expected a mocking reply.

"I know what it's like to be knee-deep in shit," he said. You hadn't expected an apology, and you were certain Lando had no intention of offering one anyway. "But next time, leave your shit outside the gym doors when you come to train. Trust me, it's better that way."

You nodded, letting out a soft sigh. You thought that would be the end of it, but Lando continued.

"I don't care about your personal frustrations. But if you're in a fight, you can't have your head somewhere else, or you're going to get hurt. You can't just check out when you have an opponent in front of you who actively wants to do you damage." Finally, he turned to look at you, now that you were both decently dressed.

"Is that what you did when you boxed?" you asked, slipping on a shoe. "Clearing your mind and keeping distractions out, I mean," you added quickly.

You saw him nod.

"But I didn't have a coach as good as me," he smirked, a familiar trace of self-assurance returning to his voice.

You saw the perfect opening to ask.

"Zak? What was he like?" you inquired, resting your chin on your knee as you tied your laces.

"A thousand times worse than me," Lando replied bluntly. "He was cruel." The sheer weight in his voice made you look up to study his face. "He was never satisfied. He made us train at least four hours a day and gave us barely any rest. I had a teammate who fainted once during training, and Zak just said, 'It's a hazard of the trade.' I was glad when he retired."

"That sounds horrible. Why would you ever let someone treat you like that?" You arched your eyebrows.

"I used to think Zak was a genius for pushing all of us to our absolute limits." Lando shrugged, seemingly unaware of how much he was opening up, or perhaps he simply didn't care anymore. "Later on, I realized that to him, everything was just money. Even the people."

"Is that why you retired?" The words slipped past your teeth before you could stop them.

The instant the question left your mouth, you knew you had ruined it. Lando locked his eyes onto yours in a heavy, freezing silence. You could swear you physically saw his walls go up, stone by stone, sealing him away once more.

"Go home," he said flatly, before stepping down from the ring.

And, having no other choice, you simply did as you were told.

By the time you got home, you were finally be able to open the poorly written document, and started writing.

Sleeping with Lando was never supposed to become a routine, but it did.

It all started the first day you managed to rearrange your schedule to train early in the morning. You were taking a quick shower in the men's locker room—the only place with genuinely hot water at that hour—your eyes closed under the stream, mind still hazy with sleep, when you heard the heavy metal door click shut. Before you could even react, Lando was already inside your stall, pressing you against the cold tiles. His rough, eager hands contrasted sharply with the warmth of the steam, and he gave you a morning orgasm so intense it left your legs trembling over the drain.

After that day, the gym's hot water began running out suspiciously fast almost every morning.

The boundaries simply dissolved. If it wasn't the showers, it was the metal desk or the couch in his second-floor office, where you had to cling to his shoulders just to keep from falling. And if it wasn't there, Lando always found a way to drag you back to the canvas of the ring when the building was empty, using it as a rough, makeshift mattress.

You couldn't complain. Sex with Lando was addictive—a wild, selfish rush of adrenaline that you both desperately needed. But the best part came afterward.

It was in the haze of exhaustion and release, when he lay beside you with ragged breath and his defenses down, that you found your finest opportunities. A lazy question tossed into the air while you fastened your bra was all it took for Lando, too exhausted to build his usual walls of distrust, to let slip some bitter phrase about his past. Small crumbs of information that you devoured in silence, memorizing them before his coldness took over once more.

"You have a scar..." you mentioned once, after you both had showered. Lando had his back to you, and you stepped closer to trace the mark on his right shoulder blade. You felt him tense slightly beneath your touch.

"Training," he said shortly, as if wanting to lay the conversation to rest.

But you still hadn't learned when to stop asking.

"Back when you trained with Zak?" you inquired, seeking his gaze over his shoulder.

"Yeah," he replied, pulling on a clean t-shirt. "With him, it never ended with a knockdown."

"That means leaving your opponent on the canvas with a single blow, right?" you tried to verify, watching him nod. "Isn't that illegal? I mean, to keep hitting someone who's already down?"

You watched him move toward the door.

"You always have a few seconds before the referee notices." And with that, he was gone.

It was only later that you allowed yourself to feel guilty, when you were locked in your bedroom at night, typing away the secrets Lando was confiding in you, using his trust to advance your professional career. Every time that guilt crept in, you forced yourself to drown it. You told yourself it was necessary, that it was just a university assignment, and that he never had to know.

But it was hard.

Mainly because every time Lando mentioned anything about Zak, your stomach turned. You could picture him—a much younger, clumsier, more naive version of himself—trusting every single word that man said, training until his muscles collapsed under the promise of a professional career in the sport he loved.

It was impossible not to empathize when you spent nearly three hours with the same man every single day, when you caught yourself looking at him just a little longer than politeness allowed. When you began to notice how he interacted with others, how he scratched his stubble when he spoke, making faces, and how everyone seemed to orbit around him and adore him, despite how insufferable he could be as a coach.

And when his walls began to fall, it only grew worse.

Guilt was no longer the only thing twisting in your stomach when Lando started joking with you more often, when you noticed he didn't seem so bitter most of the time. Suddenly, it became much easier to see all his other qualities.

The way his face lit up when you teased him, his eyes crinkling into a smile. The way he had a rather peculiar, endearing laugh that didn't align at all with the persona you had first met. How he bit his lip whenever he had to explain something to you, watching you intently while you spoke.

It was a beautiful torment.

"When is Lando coming over for dinner?" You looked up from your breakfast to find your father staring at you, snapping you out of your daydream.

It was six in the morning, and he was already awake, fully prepared to drive you to your daily training session—simply because it gave him the perfect excuse to talk to one of his favorite ex-boxers.

"Huh, I don't know. Why don't you ask him yourself?" you tried to dodge the question.

The truth was, you didn't want to ask Lando. You didn't want to invite him in the first place, because it implied things were getting serious. Even if your father had invited him before your relationship had shifted, there was still an invisible line crossed when meeting the parents.

Especially over a dinner.

"You're right, that's a great idea."

You watched your father pace around the kitchen before walking out with a knowing, clever little smile.

"Let me know when you're ready!"

You sighed, knowing there was no escape. Your father was a true boxing fanatic; any chance to be near Lando would be thoroughly exploited, and he lost no time.

Later, when he dropped you off outside the gym, he didn't leave right away. He waited until the moment Lando unlocked the gate to approach him with a wide smile.

"My wife and I want to know when you're coming over for dinner."

You saw Lando frown for a few seconds before seemingly recalling a promise made weeks ago.

"Oh, right. I remember," he said, shoving his hands into his pockets. "I don't know. When works for you?"

"How about tonight?"

"Tonight?!" you interrupted, only to be brutally ignored by both men.

"Sure, yeah. I'll bring dessert," Lando smiled at your father before your dad gave him a playful tap on the arm and turned back to you.

"Give him our address later. Don't forget!" he threatened playfully before walking away, pleased with himself.

You rolled your eyes, hearing Lando's soft chuckle before he guided you inside, his hand resting gently against your lower back.

"Did you seriously just agree to dinner with my parents?" you asked, knitting your brows, pretending the idea didn't terrify you to no end.

"Your old man is funny," he shrugged, a smile tugging at his lips. You had to look away just to keep yourself from smiling back.

You spent the rest of the day tense and anxious. You finally gave Lando your address before heading to your classes, but your mind remained hyper-focused on one thing: you had to get home early, tidy your room, and hide every trace of your essay—any clue that might tip Lando off that you were studying to be a journalist in the near future. You would have to talk seriously to your parents about avoiding the subject entirely, or at least dodging it as much as possible in front of him.

The rest of the afternoon was a frantic blur. You rushed home after classes, sweeping every corner of the living room with your eyes before locking your laptop and notebooks away in your bedroom wardrobe. By the time you finished getting ready, the clatter of dishes from the kitchen signaled that your moment had arrived.

You hurried down the stairs, finding your parents putting the finishing touches on the table setting.

"Listen to me for a second," you said, intercepting them before they could pour the wine. "Could you please avoid mentioning my studies or anything about my university work? Nothing about my thesis, my college, or my research. Do you think you can do that?"

Your father frowned, pausing with the silverware in his hand.

"Why all the secrecy? It's your career, sweetheart, you should be proud of it. Besides, I wanted to ask him about his old boxing days; maybe that could help with your research..."

"No, that's exactly why!" you cut him off, trying to suppress the rising panic in your voice. "He doesn't know anything. Lando is incredibly guarded and bitter about his past. If he finds out I'm writing about boxing or studying journalism, he won't say another word. He'll walk out. Please, let's just pretend I'm studying something else if he asks, or just change the subject. Do it for me, Dad."

Your parents exchanged glances, bewildered by your urgency, but the sheer gravity in your expression made them give in. Your mother nodded first, placing a reassuring hand on your father's arm.

"It's alright, darling. We'll talk about anything else," she promised. "We won't ruin your research."

A heavy sigh of relief escaped your lips, but before you could thank them, the doorbell echoed sharply through the ground floor. Your heart took a violent leap inside your chest.

"I'll get it," you called out before heading to the front door.

You smoothed down your shirt before opening it, offering an uncomfortably polite smile to Lando, who stood there holding a dark bag.

"Hey," he greeted with a small smile—one that felt much truer, much more relaxed. "I brought dessert," he noted, lifting the bag and shaking it gently.

"Oh, wonderful!" your mother interrupted from behind you, forcing you to step aside as she approached to let Lando in. "Thank you so much, I'll put it in the fridge."

She took the bag and vanished into the kitchen while you shut the door.

"My mother," you sighed, a half-hearted introduction. You heard Lando let out a quiet laugh.

"She seems nice." He was in a good mood.

"Come on. Dinner is almost ready." With a slight tilt of your head, you led him toward the kitchen.

From that moment on, you became a mere spectator to everything that unfolded. You watched them chat; your father poured him a glass of fruit wine, and the two of them simply drifted into their own world of boxing, reminiscing about the old days. Once everyone took their seats, it was inevitable that the conversation would shift back to you.

"You've done an incredible job with my daughter," your father said. "Her fitness has improved immensely." You flushed under the sudden spotlight.

"I've been giving it to her hard," Lando replied.

His words made you choke on your wine. Unnecessary. Utterly unnecessary for him to use that double meaning at the table.

"I can tell," your father nodded, spearing a few vegetables from his plate while he finished chewing and swallowing. "And how do you see her now? Has she improved enough?"

Lando shot you a slightly mocking, playful glance before turning back to your parents.

"She’s improved, yeah. A bit distracted these past few weeks, but she’s doing well. I think I’ll be submitting the formal application for her license to the board soon, so she can start competing."

You did your best to pretend the idea didn't terrify you, while your father looked absolutely thrilled.

"That's wonderful, thank you. Anything you need from us, just say the word," he said, genuinely impressed, before adding, "I'm really glad you're my daughter's coach, Norris. You're a very grounded guy despite everything. Honestly, I didn't think you would be... considering what happened with Hadjar."

The air seemed to vanish from the dining room. You stiffened completely in your seat and glared at your father.

"Dad," you warned in a sharp whisper.

"No, it's fine," Lando interjected, a soft smile on his face that looked more like a practiced grimace. "What happened to Isack was an accident."

You swallowed hard. You never would have thought Lando would address the matter so directly. You had danced around that name for months at the gym, and now your father was asking, without a shred of fear, the very thing you had been dying to know for ages.

"I'm just saying..." Your father shook his head, oblivious to the invisible alarm that had been tripped. "You seemed pretty sure of what you were doing in the ring for it to be a simple accident. Mind you, I'm not trying to blame you for anything!"

"Don't worry, I don't feel guilty," Lando replied almost instantly, cutting him off mid-sentence.

His voice was too quick, too clean—a mechanical response that froze the room entirely. He locked his dark eyes onto your father, drawing a sharp boundary.

"I know perfectly well that what happened was an accident, sir."

Your father blinked, caught off guard by the boxer's sudden coldness, and simply nodded.

"Please, let's drop the subject," you requested gently, stepping in before the thread could snap completely. You could feel Lando's discomfort; it radiated off him in heavy, dense waves. After months of knowing him, you preferred him in a good mood. "Let's just have a normal dinner."

"Yeah, of course."

Fortunately, dessert served as the perfect lubricant to dissolve the awkwardness that had settled over the dining room. Your mother, with her usual warmth, monopolized the conversation by talking about the London weather and some light neighborhood gossip, giving Lando the perfect opportunity to retreat into his short, polite answers without having to speak about himself. Your father, having caught the implicit warning in the air, limited himself to nodding and enjoying his food, keeping his questions strictly away from the ring for the rest of the night.

Slowly, the tension in Lando's shoulders gave way. He didn't relax completely, but the room regained a peaceful normalcy that allowed you to breathe easy again.

When the plates were cleared and the living room clock ticked past ten, Lando laid his linen napkin on the table and squared his shoulders, dictating the unwritten end of the evening.

"Ma'am, sir, dinner was excellent," he said, standing up. "Thank you very much for the invitation, but it's about time I head out. I open the gym early tomorrow."

Your parents stood up immediately to say their goodbyes with warm smiles and affectionate handshakes. Your mother even insisted on packing the leftover vegetables into a container for him—a domestic gesture that left Lando blinking, visibly out of his element, though he managed a gruff "thank you."

"I'll walk him down," you intervened quickly, before your father could offer.

Lando, holding the container of cold, sautéed vegetables in his hand, followed you down the hallway to the door. Once outside, you both walked toward the elevator and made your way out of the apartment complex in absolute silence.

"I'm sorry about my dad acting like that," you spoke up once the elevator doors slid shut behind you and you led him outside the building to say goodbye. "I tried to tell him before you arrived that you don't like talking about it, but he's so nosy—"

"I lied," he interrupted, turning to look at you with a grimace. "I still think about it. I do feel guilty."

You felt your stomach knot, and for a few seconds, you truly didn't know what to say. Nothing had prepared you for this sudden burst of honesty, for this piece of his trust. He kept speaking before your brain could formulate a response.

"Isack ended up in a really bad way after our fight... He went into a vegetative state." The truth settled deep inside you like a sickening ache.

"Oh," was all you managed to say.

"His parents took him off life support after a few months," Lando continued, and you felt a wave of dizziness wash over you. "Zak paid them a stupid amount of money to keep them quiet. So the journalists wouldn't ask questions."

"It wasn't your fault, Lando. It was an accident," you managed to repeat his own words back to him.

If there was one thing you had learned from everything Lando had told you, it was that Zak had been a terrible trainer.

"But I should have said no when Zak told me where to hit him. I knew what that would do. I'm just as responsible."

"You were a kid," you tried to reason.

"I was of age. I knew what I was doing."

"But you didn't know any better than you do now," you interrupted him once more. "You were under the care of a man who only cared about you winning and how much money he could make off you. You believed him, and that doesn't make you guilty."

You heard Lando sigh, and the only thing you knew how to do was wrap your arms around him. It felt strange—hugging him, that is. He was stiff in your embrace at first, before finally surrendering and wrapping his arms tightly around you.

"You're a better coach than he ever could have been." You felt him relax against you, and that brought you an immense sense of relief.

"Thank you," Lando murmured over your shoulder before slowly pulling away.

You looked up at him with a soft smile, trying to reassure him. He looked shattered, his eyes bright and rimmed with red, surely from holding back tears. He reached out and stroked your cheek, cradling the side of your face before leaning down to kiss you squarely on the mouth.

He had never kissed you outside of sex, and more importantly, he had never kissed you with such tenderness. He was usually unnecessarily rough and teasing, but he was none of those things now. The stubble of his beard still pricked your skin, but it was deeply comforting when his lips weren't trying to punish you. You managed to return the kiss before he pulled back.

"Early tomorrow."

"Early tomorrow," you repeated, nodding.

You stood outside for a few seconds longer, watching him walk away with a knot twisting in your stomach. And the moment his silhouette faded into the night, you ran back upstairs.

You forgot all about helping your mother with the dishes, locking yourself in your room just to write.

And if you were late for training the following morning, it was merely because you had stayed up until dawn, finishing a nine-page essay.

Good morning!

Apologies for the hour. I know there is still a week left before the final project deadline, but I wanted to check if there was any chance I could get one last review before that day.

Thank you so much in advance!

[Attached file]

Good morning, [Name],

After reading through the 10 pages of your essay, I don't think there is much to correct, except for a couple of phrasing adjustments and some minor punctuation fixes. Let's meet at the end of Monday's class to go over those details before the deadline, does that work for you?

Have a great weekend!

The relief you felt after submitting the essay felt exactly like shedding a coat of lead from your shoulders.

Ten pages of beautifully structured secrets finally rested in the professor's inbox, leaving you with a wonderful sense of lightness. The double game was over; everything was back to normal. A normalcy where the gym was no longer a journalistic research ground but your new sanctuary, and the man in front of you was no longer a subject of study but... well, Lando.

"If you keep staring at me like that, I’m going to start charging you by the hour for contemplation therapy," his husky voice snapped you out of your thoughts, laced with a light mockery that made you smile instantly.

You blinked, focusing your gaze on the weathered leather focus mitts he held loosely against his chest. Lando wasn't wearing his usual rigid posture; his shoulders were relaxed and one eyebrow was slightly raised, looking at you with an amusement that made his dark eyes gleam.

"I am focused," you lied, adjusting your gloves with a swift movement.

"Right you are. That'll be why you nearly tripped over your own feet two minutes ago," he teased, taking a lazy step forward. He gently tapped the side of your headguard with one of the mitts, just a playful touch. "Your body is here, but your little head is still floating off somewhere. What’s the matter? Why so cheerful today? Did you finally finish saving the world with your university assignments?"

A tiny prickle of adrenaline—the last lingering ghost of the secret you had just buried—tickled your stomach, but you brushed it away with a flirtatious smile. You raised your fists to your chin, slipping back into your guard with renewed energy.

"Something like that," you replied, throwing a quick jab that landed with a sharp thud! against his left mitt, followed by a subtle sway of your hips. "Let's just say I closed a pending chapter. No more pressure, so I can focus entirely on winning a round against you."

Lando let out that short, peculiar chuckle you loved so much, the one that crinkled the corners of his eyes and instantly wiped away any trace of the bitter guy he pretended to be to the rest of the world. He licked his lips, closing the distance between you until you could feel the heat of his chest almost brushing against your gloves.

"Ambitious," he murmured, lowering the mitts completely to rest his hands on his hips. His eyes raked over you, lingering a second too long on your lips before meeting your gaze again with a roguish little smile. "Glad to know your precious free time belongs to me now. But if you really want to win a round against me, you’re going to have to work harder than that... Come on, guard up," he said, lifting the mitts back into position. "One-two, slip to the left... and if you do it right, maybe I'll reward you in the showers."

You burst out laughing, ducking the mock punch he threw your way.

The training session was tougher than other days, and true to his word, Lando rewarded you later in the showers. The relief you felt was beyond compare; it finally felt like your life was falling into place. You had found a hobby you never thought you’d love so much, and you were only months away from finally graduating.

However, when you walked into the gym the following day, you weren't greeted by the same warmth as the day before.

"What the fuck are you doing in my gym?"

"Huh?" You lowered your gym bag carefully, a confused little smile on your face. Lando looked angry. No, beyond that. He was furious. "What do you mean? Didn't we have a session today?"

"You don't train in my gym anymore." He wasn't even looking at you, throwing things blindly into a duffel bag.

"Is this a joke?" You felt your heart hammer wildly against your chest. A sickening sensation settled deep in your stomach.

"After what you did? You've got some nerve showing your face here again," you heard him let out a humorless laugh. "This is exactly why I don't train women. I should've known I'd feel like knocking your bloody teeth out one day."

You swallowed hard.

"Lando, what are you talking about?" Your voice sounded incredibly small when you asked.

"I’ve already read your little piece. In fact, the whole country could have read the utter shit you wrote about me."

You felt your stomach drop at his words, and your hands began to tremble.

"Takes some real guts to write all that crap, but to actually publish it and then come crawling back to me like a desperate bitch? You've truly outdone yourself." You swallowed hard against the lump in your throat.

"I didn't publish it—"

"Oh, right, so you only wrote it. You only came to my gym to bleed me for information, you only made me—" He cut himself off before he could say another word, and you felt your eyes sting as they filled with tears. "Get out of my gym and don't you ever come back."

"Lando, please. I swear there's an explanation."

"Yeah, maybe there is. But I couldn't care less to hear it." Finally, Lando snapped his head around to look at you.

His eyes were bloodshot and puffy—the living proof of his vulnerability. But they were also filled with pure hatred, entirely hollow. There wasn't a single shred left of the affection you had managed to build over the past few months. Everything lay shattered on the floor.

"Leave before I call the police."

Your chest heaved as you tried to breathe.

"I'm sorry," you managed to choke out before grabbing your things and rushing out.

The moment you got back into your father's car, you decided you wouldn't be going to classes that day. And when you walked back into your bedroom, lying right there on your desk was the living proof of your descent into hell. An email from your professor, sent yesterday afternoon, which you hadn't managed to read until now.

Good morning, [Name]!

Apologies for the hour, but I wanted to let you know that I managed to get in touch with a publisher to edit and release your opinion column about Lando Norris. The insight and the phrasing are exquisite—a deeply personal project under your name, and one that I am certain will open doors for your career in the future.

By the time you read this, it will already be published! We can discuss the details tomorrow after class. As always, I am so proud of your results. You are going to be an incredible journalist.

Have a lovely afternoon.

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