"I'm all down for doing something wreckless." She needed that sort of excitement in her life these days. With finding out that Sebastian was now in town and the pair fucking every chance they got, it would be nice to have another sort of excitement that didn't revolve around doing something that would likely blow up in her face.

"Tattoos is interesting but I think I'd lean more towards something that isn't so permanent." Meaning she would put that one in the backburner and choose to focus on the calls and the rumor. "We can do a bit of both. Call them under the guise of something we heard that is completely fabricated."

Her head tilted at the second option. It sounded peaceful and there was something almost therapeutic about that option. Windows down, coffee in hand, open road in front of them. "Actually, maybe we play it safe and go with the open road and if we get bored, we can always make a call when we stop somewhere." They'd play it by hear.

" I think I need a change of scenary and who knows where that'll bring us." Some motel, a market on the side of the road, in some bar outside of town.

Not knowing was the fun of it. "Let's take mine. The tank is full."

She took another sip, then set the cup down on the counter behind her, leaning in just enough to drop her voice conspiratorially. “We’ll keep the rumor in our back pocket. Something outrageous but believable. Like you got married in Vegas last weekend or I’ve been scouted for a reality show about mechanics.” The deadpan delivery made it hard to tell if she was serious, though the flash in her eyes suggested she was already plotting.

Pushing off the wall, she nodded toward the door. “Change of scenery sounds about right. Sometimes the only way to shake things loose is to actually move.” She grabbed her jacket from the back of the chair and slid it on, the leather creaking faintly.

“Yours it is,” she said, already walking toward the exit with the kind of purposeful ease that said she was all in. “I’ll grab us a map from the counter on the way out, and we’ll just… see where we land.”

She glanced back over her shoulder, one brow raised. “Fair warning, though if we pass a roadside stand selling pie, I’m making us stop.”

As they stepped back out into the hallway, Enzo offered his ex a sympathetic smile. It was one thing to see your parent struggle, and another to know that there was absolutely nothing you could do to help them. Either you learned to accept their new life for what it was, or spend the last of their days mourning the person you had before they were really gone. Neither one of those options felt any easier than the other.

At the mention of catching up, his instinct was to steer the conversation back toward their parents. To default to familiar ground. But truthfully, the thought of bringing Elena into that room stopped him dead in his tracks. Nancy would light up the second she saw her—of that, he had no doubt. His mother had adored Elena, and she’d never been shy about letting him know just how royally he’d screwed things up. “She did nothing but love you, and you pushed her away,” the woman had said on more than one occasion. Enzo didn’t need to hear it again, not today. Not when he was already turning over every choice he’d ever made and wondering if he'd ever really stopped being the scared kid who thought that distance would protect him from ever being abandoned.

So instead, he turned toward Elena with a crooked half-smile and a nod of his head. “Nothing I love more than a cup of weak coffee. Maybe they'll even have a few stale muffins left. Let's go."

“Stale muffins are my favorite,” she said softly, falling into step beside him. It wasn’t about the coffee or the vending machine pastries. It was the simple relief of not having to go back to the waiting room alone. The comfort of him still being there, in her orbit.

She didn’t press about his mom. She figured he’d go when he was ready.

For now, it felt like enough. That in the quiet wreckage of a long afternoon, they were still choosing to walk forward together, even if just a hallway at a time.

He wasn't at all surprised by her remark about his assumptions about her sleep schedule, and instead he rolled his eyes. "I don't think there's anything wrong with being liked. I also don't think you're as immune to it as you let on. After all, if that wasn't the case, you wouldn't be in a court, trying cases."

He followed her into the conference room and retrieved the case brief from his bag without much flare, handing it over wordlessly. Alex would give Elena maybe 30 seconds before she started picking his argument apart.

“You’re leaning too much on that second statement,” she said, tone cool but not unkind. “It doesn’t hold. Not the way you need it to.”

Another page turned.

“And the timeline? Cleaner than I expected,” she added, almost like it cost her nothing. But Alex would recognize that it did. “Still a few weak points. You’re assuming a level of goodwill that the court isn’t obligated to extend.”

She closed the folder then, fingertips tapping once against the edge before sliding it back toward him. Her posture never shifted.

“You’re not there yet. But you’re closer than most.”

There was no smile, no gesture to soften it—but something in her voice had shifted. Just slightly. A thread of something that sounded dangerously close to respect.

“Fix the weak points. You’ll be fine.”

"Hey, I think everyone needs a little duck distraction from time to time," he smiled, warmly. He looked down at his kid, squatting down to get to his eye level before he spoke to him directly for a moment. "Bub, you can keep throwing oatmeal, pero no te acerques mucho al agua, okay?" he spoke, softly, warmly, much like he had been talking to the girl.

After making sure Jersey wasn't straying too far away or too close to the pond, Kit stood back up and looked at Elena again. "You having a rough day today? I know going on a walk always helps clear my head. Especially down this way. There's a nice little trail over on the other side of the playground where I like to have my mental breakdowns," he said, a little grin curling up on the ends of his lips as he looked at her. He was only half joking.

She didn’t say anything right away. Just reached down to swipe an oat flake off her own knee, flicking it lazily toward the water like maybe it still had a shot.

“Rough day?” she echoed, glancing sideways at him, one brow arching faintly. “No. Just the usual combination of emails, court filings, and the lingering existential dread of living in a town where everyone knows your business before you’ve had your morning coffee.”

But there was no bite in it. If anything, it was said with a dry sort of humor that suggested she’d already made peace with it.

Her eyes followed Jersey for a beat, making sure he was still in oat-flinging range, before she looked back at Kit.

“Didn’t know there was a designated mental breakdown trail,” she added. “You’ll have to mark that on the town map for me. Maybe install a bench and a plaque. ‘In memory of my last ounce of patience.’” Her smile tilted, wry. “I’ll bring snacks.”

A pause, then, more gently, “But yeah. Walk helps. Ducks help more.”

At the nudge and the question that followed, Elena’s smile shifted into something warmer—quieter. “Not that kind of text,” she said, shaking her head. “My mom’s doctor called. Said her latest labs came back clean, and she’s doing well after a little accident she had recently.” She huffed a laugh, but it was soft, fond. “Then my sister called after, totally crying about it, so… yeah. Just good news for once.”

Then Cassia hit her with the rest, and Elena’s smirk faded into something softer. She angled toward her friend, gaze steady and sharp in that quiet, grounded way she had when she cared but didn’t want to crowd. “Well,” she said, after a beat, “that’s one hell of a headline.”

She took the matcha without hesitation when Cassia handed it over, lifting it in a small toast. “To deluded states and emotional sabotage,” she said dryly, then took a sip and let out a small hum of satisfaction. “Not bad. Could use a touch more sweetness, but at least it doesn’t taste like regret.”

Then, more gently, she added, “You sure you want to mess shit up further? You could do the complete opposite, maybe avoid it with a friend instead.” A beat. “Because I’m free until noon.”

"You should have some kind of celebration about that." Whether it was with the entire family or even with her sister. Though she couldn't actually say the latter because of her own situation and loss of her older sister.

Her head fell into a nod as she flashed her a look that indicated it was an understatement. There was a lot of unexpected shift in her life and she hadn't found solid footing just yet to be able to navigate it. Nor did she know if she even wanted to. Frankly, she'd been good at hiding from things these last few years so she was tempted to lean into that more.

And then, as if Elena had heard her thoughts, she offered a solution to her problems that made her brow raise. It was a tempting offer given how fearful she was that the conversation would go south and steer towards the subject of her departure and the end of their engagement.

"So what do you think we should do until noon?"

At the mention of celebrating, her smile shifted a touch, more thoughtful. “She’d roll her eyes at a big deal,” she said. “Which means I’ll probably show up with takeout and force her to eat cake anyway. That’s my version of subtle.”

Then she saw it—that flicker just behind Cassia’s eyes. Not sadness exactly, but the wear of someone navigating uneven ground. Elena didn’t press. She never did. But she made space for it in the way she always did—quietly, without expectation.

At Cassia’s question, Elena let the moment stretch, her brow arching slightly as she leaned her shoulder back against the wall again. “Well,” she started, lifting her matcha for another sip, “we could do something reckless. Walk out of here and get tattoos. Call your ex, my ex, whoever, and leave a wildly confusing voicemail. Start a rumor and see how far it spreads by noon.”

She grinned, but it was soft, an undercurrent of sincerity beneath the teasing. “Or—hear me out—we finish our drinks, pick up something to-go, and just drive. Windows down. Music on. No plans, no explanations. Just the road and the fact that it’s a decent morning.”

She paused, “I am also not against just grabbing a table outside and giving you the floor to talk, or not talk, about whatever it is you’re avoiding.”

The to-go cup was warm in Frankie’s hand, but one sip told her everything she needed to know.

“Mm, nope. That’s not mine,” she said, wincing as she pulled the cup away from her lips and squinted at the label. “This is... sweet. Like, cavity sweet.”

The barista — bright-eyed, frazzled, and probably two hours into a twelve-hour shift — gave her an apologetic wince. “Oh shoot, sorry! You ordered the half-sweet oat milk, right? That one’s full vanilla and two pumps of caramel.”

Frankie smiled, easy. “It happens.”

“We’ve got yours coming up now. You can just keep that one, though,” the barista added with a shrug. “On the house.”

Frankie blinked at the cup in her hand, then turned to glance at the person behind her in line. She tilted her head, holding the cup out with a crooked grin. “Hey. You want an accidental sugar rush? I'll get you a new lid, of course.” she said. “Full vanilla, caramel, and a guaranteed jolt straight to the bloodstream. You know... in case your morning needed extra caffeine and a personality."

She hadn’t expected to be handed a cup.

The woman in front of her turned, holding it out with a grin and a pitch that was far too chipper for 8 a.m.

“Hey. You want an accidental sugar rush? I’ll get you a new lid, of course. Full vanilla, caramel, and a guaranteed jolt straight to the bloodstream. You know... in case your morning needed extra caffeine and a personality.”

Elena arched a brow, but her expression was more amused than skeptical.

“Can’t argue with the sales pitch,” she said, reaching for the cup. “Though I should probably text my dentist a heads-up.”

She glanced at the drink, then back at the woman. “Appreciate it. This day’s already doing the most.”

A beat passed—casual, unhurried.

She gestured lightly with the cup. “You always hand off random sugar bombs to strangers, or is this just a Wednesday thing?”

“That’s the problem with you,” she said finally, tone smooth as cut glass. “You think winning is the same as being right.”

A pause. Barely a breath.

“But sure,” she added, dry, “walk beside me. Wouldn’t want you to twist an ankle trying to keep up.”

She didn’t smile, not exactly—but there was a glint in her eye when she glanced sideways at him. Sharp. Amused. Dangerous, in the way storms were beautiful just before they broke.

Then she pushed open the door ahead of them, holding it just long enough for him to follow. “Let’s see if that win of yours survives the morning.”

“Careful,” he said as he stepped through the door after her, voice low and even. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were impressed.”

He glanced over at her, not quite smiling either, but the tension around his mouth said he wanted to. Just a little.

“And for the record,” he added, matching her stride again, “I don’t think winning makes me right. I know it doesn’t.”

A pause. Then, as the hallway narrowed and their shoulders brushed for half a second too long, he looked ahead again and murmured, “But it does mean I sleep better at night than you probably do.”

That was the thing with Elena — he never raised his voice, never took the bait outright. He was convinced that they could get toward something that resembled friendship if he didn't allow himself to fall victim to his own... impatience.

She rounded the corner ahead of him, her steps as deliberate as her tone. If she’d noticed the shoulder brush, she didn’t give it weight — didn’t even pause to let it register.

“And don’t flatter yourself with assumptions about my sleep schedule,” she added. “Some of us don’t need to be right or liked to rest easy.”

She pushed open the conference room door, held it without fanfare, and shot him the kind of look that wasn’t quite amused. “But by all means, enjoy your moral victory.

“You always did favor the dodge,” she said evenly, not accusing, just observing. “Guess some things don’t change.”

Her eyes tracked him as he started to circle — and it wasn’t the first time she’d watched him do it. She remembered that rhythm from a distance. From years back. From the bleachers or the doorway of this gym, where her brother used to spar and Travis always stood a little sharper. A little more controlled. She’d never admitted she noticed. She didn’t have to now.

When he tapped her arm — that light correction, familiar and practiced — her gaze followed the gesture, then lifted back to his face with a quiet, unreadable look. Not startled. Just… present. Like she’d expected it before he made the choice to do it.

“You’re still narrating,” she murmured, tone dry but not cold. “I used to think it was just for show. Now I’m starting to think you really can’t help yourself.”

She didn’t retreat when he stepped in. Just mirrored the space, a quiet echo, grounded and calm. She didn’t need to make it obvious she knew how close he was. That knowledge was already built into the angle of her shoulders, the way her breath held steady despite the subtle pull in the air between them.

And when he dropped his guard — that invitation, deliberate and cocky in its own quiet way — she didn’t jump to fill it. Not right away.

Instead, she moved with purpose. A feint low, sharp and quick. A second motion layered behind it — tighter, more precise, designed to test him, not catch him. She wasn’t here to land hits she hadn’t earned.

As she slid back into her stance, there was a flicker of something in her expression. Not quite a smile, not quite a smirk. Just a shift. Like the weight of memory had brushed her shoulder on the way past.

“I’m not the kid watching from the wall anymore,” she said, soft but clear. “And you’re not just a name I used to hear my brother yell over the ring.”

She looked at him fully now — not just as someone she’d known, but as someone she was sizing up for herself.

“So let’s stop pretending this is still old ground,” she added, hands steady, chin lifted just enough to spark. “Show me what’s changed.”

And present is dangerous.

“That’s the thing about old ground,” he says lowly, still circling, but slower now. “You think you’ve moved on from it… and then you feel it under your boots again. Same dirt. Same ghosts. Different stakes.”

She moves with precision, and he doesn’t miss a single bit of it. The shift in her weight. The discipline tucked behind the feint. It’s not just training. It’s intention. It’s confidence without needing to flash it. The kind that’s earned, not handed out. And hell, does he like it.

“You’re right though,” he admits, dragging a hand across his jaw, thoughtful and measured now. “You’re not that kid anymore. And I’d be an idiot to treat you like someone still figuring out how to throw a punch.”

He steps in again—not with bravado this time, but with something heavier. Slower. Like he’s not just stepping into her space… but into the truth that she’s right. They’re not who they were. And maybe they never really were those people to begin with—just pieces shaped by what they couldn’t say back then.

“But don’t kid yourself,” he adds, tone dipped in that low, gravel-warm cadence that always shows up when he’s not playing games anymore. “You think I’ve stayed still all these years? You think you’re the only one who changed while the rest of us just froze in time? Look at me, El. I'm a fuckin' mess. My life's a fuckin' mess.”

He eases back into stance, but his gaze never leaves hers. It can't. It's almost like he's mesmerized by her. In a way, he definitely shouldn't be.

“But you wanna know what's different for me now, Elena?” His voice softens—not from weakness, but from honesty. The kind of honesty that comes only when the sweat’s started to rise and the walls are too tired to hold up anymore. “I used to fight to prove I had something worth losing. Now… I just fight ‘cause I already lost too damn much and it's all I really can do. Well that, and fuck shit up.”

There’s a pause. Just long enough to carry weight. “I won’t waste time pretending we’re still sparring with what we used to be. You want this—right now, the part of me that's changed? Then fine, you've got it." He takes a step back, removes his gloves. Until they're both off, physically and metaphorically. And then, without thinking about it, he does the one thing he knows he probably shouldn’t in the moment. The one thing, he should think better of. He steps forward, takes her face into his hands and kisses her. Hard. It’s not tentative. It’s not a test. It’s something hot and inevitable. Something that crashes through the space between them like it’s always been waiting there to explode—buried beneath emotional bruises (on his end) and banter (on both of theirs) and all the years they may have pretended they didn’t see each other this way.

Not the kiss — not quite — but the shift. The way his stance changed. The way his voice dropped like gravel in a glass, no edge, just weight. She knew that version of him. Even if she’d never been the one close enough to touch it before.

And when he stepped in—gloves off, walls down, hands warm and rough and real on either side of her face—she didn’t flinch.

Didn’t melt, either.

She met him.

Mouth parting, pulse kicking up — not in shock, but in recognition. Like something dormant had just snapped to life. Like the heat between them had been building for years in silence, and all it needed was that spark. That opening. That look.

And the kiss? It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet. It was hot and hard and laced with everything they hadn’t said. Everything they hadn’t let themselves say.

It was a collision.

And she let it be.

Let it happen. Let it burn.

Her hands didn’t go to him right away — they hovered for a breath at his sides, knuckles brushing the sweat-warmed fabric of his shirt like she was deciding: pull him closer, or push him back?

Then she fisted the fabric.

Gripped it tight like it grounded her. Like he did.

And she kissed him like she’d waited years to get this close. Like she'd watched him from across gym mats and from the shadow of her brother’s shoulder. Like she remembered every damn second of him looking through her. Like now? Now he saw her. And she wasn’t going to be ignored again.

She kissed him with control. With intent. With the kind of heat that builds behind sparring eyes and clenched jaws and nights wondering what his hands would feel like if they weren’t wearing gloves.

And when she finally pulled back — barely, lips still brushing his — her breath caught hard in her throat. Not from fear. Not from surprise.

Just… truth.

“You really think you’re the only one who lost shit?” she said, voice low, wrecked at the edges. But steady. “I watched my whole life turn into something I didn’t recognize — and I still got up. Still threw the next punch.”

Her fingers curled tighter in his shirt, dragging just slightly — not by accident.

“So no. I’m not sparring with a memory,” she whispered, eyes flicking to his. “And I’m not kissing you like I’ve still got something to prove.”

A beat passed, and then another. Her gaze didn’t break. And slowly — deliberately — she stepped back.

Not to run. Not to retreat.

To reset.

To dare him.

“You want to keep fighting?” she asked, rolling her shoulders loose again. Her breath was still uneven. Her lips swollen from the contact. Her eyes blazing. “Or you want to stop pretending that’s what we’re still doing?”

But then Leyla was saying that—you being here makes it feel a little less drowning—and Elena felt it hit like a wave to the ribs. She didn’t flinch. She just held her gaze, steady and full of something quiet and unspoken. There’d never been any pretending with Leyla, and maybe that’s why Elena always found her way back to her, even when things inside her got messy and hard to name.

The water lapped gently between them, and Elena dipped a hand beneath the surface, like she needed something to anchor her. She opened her mouth to answer—then paused when Leyla disappeared beneath the water.

When she surfaced again, grinning and blinking seawater from her lashes, Elena just shook her head and smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes yet. Not all the way.

“What am I running from?” she echoed, brushing a wet strand of hair behind her ear as she stared out toward the horizon. “Mm. Expectations. Guilt. The usual greatest hits.”

She looked back at Leyla then, a small smile flickering at the corner of her mouth.

“But mostly I just needed a place where I didn’t have to hold it all together. Where I could be a mess and not owe anyone an explanation.”

Her shoulders rolled back, loose now, not quite at ease—but getting there.

“So thanks for the chaos. It’s strangely therapeutic.”

"Honestly, with the mood I'm in? I'd get a tattoo right now." No, but seriously.. what in the actual hell was wrong with her? Leyla's grin softened, her gaze holding steady on Elena as she listened, and related to every damn thing she said. She pushed a strand of wet hair back, letting her hand linger at the back of her neck for a moment, noting the tension lingering in her frame. "Well, you don't have to hold it together here. Consider this a safe space," she said, a quiet promise in the way she said it. She meant every word. The words hung in the air there for a beat, before her grin slipped back into place, winking at Elena now. "Besides, I liked you messy. Makes me feel less alone in the chaos." She nudged her ightly with her foot under the water, letting a small laugh slip out, easing the heaviness without dismissing it. “If anything, you’ve made me forget all of my problems. You, and this ocean. So.. thank you.”

Leyla’s nudge drew a small smile from her, and Elena let the water carry her a little closer, brushing past her shoulder as she moved. “Messy looks good on both of us,” she murmured, voice warm. “And I’m glad I could return the favor.” She lingered a beat longer, then tilted her head, playful again. “So? We swimming more, or am I dragging you to a tattoo shop before you come to your senses?”

Kit had slowly started making his way over to the two of them. Not to hover, but just to close the gap in case anything did happen to go wrong. But he was casual about it. Hands in his pockets, hat over his hair to hide the fact that he was the only one that day who had not gotten a chance to properly get ready.

Jersey followed Elena's lead and threw the oatmeal as far as he possibly could, a few of the flakes landing on his shoulder, a few landing on the little space of land in front of them, and close to none in the water. But a win was a win when you were three. "Quack!" the little one exclaimed with a large smile.

"I'd like to apologize in advance if this little guy pulled you out of any important thoughts. He just really loved ducks," Kit smiled, finally catching up to the two.

“Impeccable aim,” she said, solemn as a judge. “I think that one duck over there blinked in appreciation.”

And then: “Quack,” she echoed, straight-faced. Like they were in on something together.

When she heard the voice behind them—older, warm, edged with apology—she straightened a little, glancing up over her shoulder at Kit as he closed the distance. Her sunglasses had slipped partway down her nose again, and she pushed them up with one finger before meeting his eyes.

“No need to apologize,” she said easily. “I think he might’ve just saved me from spiraling into a very unnecessary internal debate about work emails.”

There was something a little sharper beneath the warmth of her smile, but it wasn’t unkind. Just… honest. Like maybe she had needed the interruption more than she cared to admit.

Her gaze flicked back to Jersey. “And anyway, anyone with that level of duck-related conviction deserves the floor.”

Enzo stood quietly at Isabel’s bedside, watching her eyes struggle through the fog of memory, reaching for something that might never come fully into view. That flicker—the way her gaze had narrowed slightly when it landed on him—hit him harder than he expected. Maybe it wasn’t recognition exactly, but something else. A ghost of who he’d once been to her. It had been years, after all.

His gaze drifted back to Elena, standing at the foot of her mother’s bed like a lighthouse in a storm, a beacon of hope, even as the waves of grief crashed against her. Not everything had stayed the same over the years, but the way she showed up for those she loved certainly had.

Letting out a breath, Enzo offered a small, steady nod. “This isn't my mother's first rodeo. She’s probably chatting with a nurse or doing one of her beloved crossword puzzles. I promise, she won’t notice if I’m gone for a few more minutes.” Enzo’s gaze softened as he looked at Elena again, catching the quiet tension in her posture. “Unless… you’d rather be alone with her right now. I get that too. Whatever you need.”

She didn’t know what her mother had taken in, if anything. But there’d been something in the way Isabel’s eyes had lingered on Enzo—a flicker, a narrowing, like a ghost of recognition trying to claw its way through the fog. It wasn’t much. But it was something.

And Enzo had stayed. He hadn’t backed away from the moment or her grief or the complicated silence of the room. He’d stood beside her like he had every right to be there. Like he’d never left.

The nurse came in eventually, her voice gentle as she let them know Isabel needed to rest. Elena leaned down to press her lips to her mother’s temple, whispering a goodbye she wasn’t quite ready to say out loud. Then she stepped into the hallway with Enzo, letting the door click shut behind them.

Outside, everything felt suspended—the harsh lighting, the faint antiseptic sting in the air, the low hum of a nearby monitor. Her arms folded over her chest as she exhaled, grounding herself in the moment.

She glanced at Enzo, her voice quiet but certain. “Do you want to go find your mom?”

There was no pressure in it—just an open door. And then, after a beat, her mouth tugged into the faintest smile. “Or… I could buy you a terrible hospital coffee as a thank-you. For being here. Or maybe as a bribe. To catch up.”

And more importantly, how she moved.

The second her fist cuts through air, his grin grows — slow and wolfish, like it’s built of both admiration and challenge intermixed. He’s not just impressed. He’s interested.

“Well hell,” he mutters, stepping into a slow circle around her, eyes sharp but far from cold. “That the warm-up, or did you come out here swingin’ just to make sure I remembered what you’re made of?”

He keeps his hands loose, body coiled with control, but he doesn’t strike — not yet. He’s too busy watching her. Every shift of her stance, every flick of her gorgeous eyes. There’s tension between them, sure, but it’s not the combat kind anymore. Not really. It’s something far more dangerous: familiarity re-forged in fire and just enough flirtation to light a wick.

“Not bad,” he adds, teasing now, voice low and threaded with heat. “But I gotta admit — I was almost hopin’ you’d land that one. Would’ve given me a reason to return the favor… become more hands-on.”

His smile turns sideways as he steps closer again — just a beat inside her range, but not threatening. Instead, he lifts a hand and gently taps two fingers against the side of her arm. It's a feather-light form of contact where a glove might have landed.

“Right there. Wide open.” He raises an eyebrow. “You used to lead with your shoulder more. Lost that edge somewhere between Charlotte and wherever the hell else you ran off to?” There’s no accusation in his voice, just a flicker of something warm under the sarcasm— like he’s glad she went out into the world and even more glad she came back.

Then, with a smirk playing tug-of-war with the corner of his mouth, he drops his guard slightly. Just a fraction. Enough to give her a clear shot. “But hey,” he shrugs, mock-casual, “I’m not above takin’ a hit or two. Especially if you’re offerin’ the kind that come with a view like this.”

He winks, and it’s shameless — because of course it is — but there’s affection behind it, genuine and unfiltered. This isn’t just Travis putting on a show. It’s Travis remembering what it feels like to laugh with her. To tease her and mean it. To spar in more ways than one.

“You done testin’ my reflexes yet, or should I keep lettin’ you miss just so you’ll keep flirtin’ with me under the guise of aggression? I mean,” his voice dips, just for her now, “I could take a few more shots… if that’s the only way you’re brave enough to touch me these days.” The look in his eyes says it plainly: the fight was never the dangerous part. She is.

“You always did favor the dodge,” she said evenly, not accusing, just observing. “Guess some things don’t change.”

Her eyes tracked him as he started to circle — and it wasn’t the first time she’d watched him do it. She remembered that rhythm from a distance. From years back. From the bleachers or the doorway of this gym, where her brother used to spar and Travis always stood a little sharper. A little more controlled. She’d never admitted she noticed. She didn’t have to now.

When he tapped her arm — that light correction, familiar and practiced — her gaze followed the gesture, then lifted back to his face with a quiet, unreadable look. Not startled. Just… present. Like she’d expected it before he made the choice to do it.

“You’re still narrating,” she murmured, tone dry but not cold. “I used to think it was just for show. Now I’m starting to think you really can’t help yourself.”

She didn’t retreat when he stepped in. Just mirrored the space, a quiet echo, grounded and calm. She didn’t need to make it obvious she knew how close he was. That knowledge was already built into the angle of her shoulders, the way her breath held steady despite the subtle pull in the air between them.

And when he dropped his guard — that invitation, deliberate and cocky in its own quiet way — she didn’t jump to fill it. Not right away.

Instead, she moved with purpose. A feint low, sharp and quick. A second motion layered behind it — tighter, more precise, designed to test him, not catch him. She wasn’t here to land hits she hadn’t earned.

As she slid back into her stance, there was a flicker of something in her expression. Not quite a smile, not quite a smirk. Just a shift. Like the weight of memory had brushed her shoulder on the way past.

“I’m not the kid watching from the wall anymore,” she said, soft but clear. “And you’re not just a name I used to hear my brother yell over the ring.”

She looked at him fully now — not just as someone she’d known, but as someone she was sizing up for herself.

“So let’s stop pretending this is still old ground,” she added, hands steady, chin lifted just enough to spark. “Show me what’s changed.”

“See, this is what I missed,” he said, cup now empty. “That warm, encouraging energy you bring to every room.”

He straightened the cuff of his shirt, subtle but deliberate. “You’re right though, tailoring can only do so much. Lucky for me, I never needed help looking good when I win.”

Then, a pause, just enough to let it land, before a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “But hey, you lead the way. I wouldn’t want to outpace you before we even get started.”

He fell into step beside her without waiting, the low hum of good-natured challenge already tightening the air between them.

“That’s the problem with you,” she said finally, tone smooth as cut glass. “You think winning is the same as being right.”

A pause. Barely a breath.

“But sure,” she added, dry, “walk beside me. Wouldn’t want you to twist an ankle trying to keep up.”

She didn’t smile, not exactly—but there was a glint in her eye when she glanced sideways at him. Sharp. Amused. Dangerous, in the way storms were beautiful just before they broke.

Then she pushed open the door ahead of them, holding it just long enough for him to follow. “Let’s see if that win of yours survives the morning.”

"Just enough so that the neighbors know I'm home, but not loud enough they know my every move." she added in matter of factly, taking in the newfound space put between them with a small smirk. She knew it wasn't meant as a point in her favor, but in the game of mental chess the two had been playing she sat on what her next move should be.

"I think our styles will clash just fine, as long as there is some push and pull from the both of us. I'm good with the push, how do you do with the pull?"

She watched Reina with a measured stillness, the kind that didn’t need to announce itself to be felt. “Push and pull,” she repeated softly, like she was turning the phrase over in her mind. “You might be good at the push, but I don’t mind the tension.”

Her gaze held Reina’s, even — steady — before a subtle smile curved at the corner of her mouth. “Pull too hard, and things snap. Too soft, and no one notices the shift.” A small shrug followed, elegant and unaffected. “It’s all about timing. Leverage. Knowing when to give just enough.”

She let the silence settle for a moment, like a final card being laid. Then: “I don’t need to control every move on the board. Just the ones that matter.”

It wasn’t a challenge. Not exactly. But it wasn’t backing down either. Just the truth — delivered Elena’s way: calm, deliberate, and sharp as glass.

When her voice cut through the low hum of the radio in the background and the clink of metal in his hands, he couldn't help the smirk that ghosted across his lips. He finished tightening the bolt, jaw ticking as he tested the part with a small, satisfied nod before setting the wrench down with a quiet clank. Only then did he turn, his dark eyes sweeping over her slowly, taking in the familiar leather, the easy confidence, and the beer she set down beside her. "Elena," he greeted, his voice a little rough from hours of working in the shop, but.. there was a hint of solmething under it, something softer that only ever came out around her. A slow, crooked grin tugged at his mouth when he clocked the six-pack. “Trying to butter me up with beer before you beg me to fix her again?”

He wiped his hands on a rag, the space between them shrinking, the air between them thickening the way it always did when she showed up unannounced. His gaze flickered over her face as he stops right in front of her, lingering for a second longer than it should've, before dropping to the beer. "She's acting up again, huh?" The words came out low as his arm moved around her to grab a bottle — one for her, one for him — letting their shoulders brush. "I'm starting to think she just doesn't like your heavy-handed riding." A smirk tugged at his mouth as he twisted the cap off and took a slow sip. He leaned back against the workbench next to her, shoulder grazing hers again, more intentionally this time.

But she didn’t move away when his arm brushed hers. If anything, she leaned into it just a little, letting that quiet touch ground her in the moment. Letting it remind her why she came here in the first place—why it was always him she turned to, even when she swore she wouldn’t.

His words—No sé si tú seas la que necesita que la salven—lingered longer than she wanted to admit, curling into the cracks of her calm like heat under skin. She didn’t respond to that one. Not with words. Just a flick of her gaze toward him, something unreadable sparking behind her eyes.

“Mm.” Her fingers curled around the bottle he’d handed her, the cool glass a sharp contrast to the warmth that pooled beneath her skin. “You want a kiss on the cheek like I’m sweet on you,” she said, feigning contemplation. “That’s bold, Mateo.”

A slow sip. A half step forward.

“But alright,” she added, eyes catching his with something close to a challenge. “You earn it, and we’ll talk.”

When he turned toward the bike, she followed, a comfortable few steps behind. Her voice chased after him with a hint of smugness. “And for the record? If I were planning to get stranded, I’d pick somewhere a lot more interesting than your garage.”

She paused, letting the silence settle, then added, quieter—

“But if it had to be somewhere…”

She didn’t finish the sentence. Just let it hang there between them, charged and open-ended.

Like everything else they never said.

Leyla let out a quiet breath, relishing the feel of the sun on her skin and how suddenly, the surrounding water no longer felt cold. Elena's words settled somewhere deep in her chest in that quiet, heavy way that truths did. "Yeah," she ageed, her eyes studying the woman's features. Damn, she was pretty. "Kinda feels like the only place you can breathe sometimes, huh? When you feel like you're getting away from everything." The breeze tugged at a few wet strands of hair, and she pushed them back, a small grin tugging at her lips as Elena's tease landed. "On brand?" she scoffed lightly, shaking her head with mock offence, though her eyes glinted with warmth. "Please, chaos is my natural habitat." And that it truly was. It might as well have been her middle name. She let herself look at Elena fully then, the space between them charged, the tide pushing and pulling but never quite managing to separate them. "But hey, you being here makes it feel a little less drowning. —And, I've got you too." She offered her a soft, shy smile before dipping her head under water briefly. When she surfaced again, water dripping down her face, Leyla wiped her eyes and blinked at Elena, grin slipping back into place. “So what about you, huh? What are you running from today?”

But then Leyla was saying that—you being here makes it feel a little less drowning—and Elena felt it hit like a wave to the ribs. She didn’t flinch. She just held her gaze, steady and full of something quiet and unspoken. There’d never been any pretending with Leyla, and maybe that’s why Elena always found her way back to her, even when things inside her got messy and hard to name.

The water lapped gently between them, and Elena dipped a hand beneath the surface, like she needed something to anchor her. She opened her mouth to answer—then paused when Leyla disappeared beneath the water.

When she surfaced again, grinning and blinking seawater from her lashes, Elena just shook her head and smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes yet. Not all the way.

“What am I running from?” she echoed, brushing a wet strand of hair behind her ear as she stared out toward the horizon. “Mm. Expectations. Guilt. The usual greatest hits.”

She looked back at Leyla then, a small smile flickering at the corner of her mouth.

“But mostly I just needed a place where I didn’t have to hold it all together. Where I could be a mess and not owe anyone an explanation.”

Her shoulders rolled back, loose now, not quite at ease—but getting there.

“So thanks for the chaos. It’s strangely therapeutic.”