He didn’t push. He just walked over, sat on the edge of my bed, and waited. The silence stretched. And then, for reasons I still can’t explain, I told him everything. The scholarship. The pressure. The father who loved me but couldn’t stay sober. The fear that one wrong move would send the whole house of cards tumbling down.
His eyes widened. For one heartbeat. Two.
“And you are?” His voice was a low rasp, like he’d just finished screaming at someone. Or something else entirely.
He pulled me into his chest and wrapped his arms around me. No kiss. No groping. Just an embrace so solid, so warm, that I felt something crack open inside me. I pressed my face into his shoulder and finally, finally let myself cry.
He smiled then—a real one, not the sharp, mean version. And for a split second, I saw something underneath the tattoos and the attitude. Something tired. Something hungry.
“Hey, boxer.”
Even I, a girl who spent her Friday nights with torts and contracts, knew the name. Six-foot-four, all coiled muscle and bad intentions. Captain of the underground boxing circuit. Rumored to have been arrested twice, bailed out both times by some mysterious benefactor. His face was the wallpaper of every “Forbidden” Pinterest board on campus.