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The first time Mrs. Esposito told you she was closing the dry cleaners, you honestly thought you had misunderstood. In your mind, you translated her words into a temporary break, a well-deserved vacation, a few weeks to recover after years of hard work.
The last thing you would have imagined was that she meant it for good.
“Oh yes, dear,” she confirmed with a smile, that disarmingly gentle one that lit up her face and drew attention to her white teeth—far too perfect to be natural at her age. “I want to spend some time with my grandchildren. So’ ’a vita mia.”
You didn’t quite understand the last part, but the meaning reached you all the same, conveyed by the way she placed a hand over her chest, above her light blue plaid shirt, her fingers pressed against her heart as though protecting something precious.
“Of course. I understand,” you replied automatically.
The truth was, you didn’t. Not at all. You could barely catch glimpses of your own family, squeezed between court hearings, meetings, and work dinners postponed indefinitely. Putting yourself in the shoes of someone who willingly chose to slow down felt almost unreal.
And yet, the news affected you more than you cared to admit. It had taken you years—literal years—to find a dry cleaner that treated your clothes the way they deserved to be treated. Your tailored suits, silk shirts, custom-made coats: every garment always came back immaculate, without a single misplaced crease or that harsh chemical smell other dry cleaners left lingering in the fabric. Mrs. Esposito worked with an almost maternal kind of care, as though every jacket were a child she had to straighten up before sending it back out into the world.
You gathered your clothes from the counter with your gaze lowered, distracted, still trying to process the sudden loss of that quiet little certainty. It was probably that expression that stirred something in the woman’s heart.
“Still,” she added, tilting her head slightly, as though she had read your mind, “there’s a young man a little farther down the street. He opened about a year ago. From what I’ve heard, he’s quite good at what he does. He’s young, kind… and he still does things the old-fashioned way.”
She leaned over the counter with surprising agility for someone her age, rummaged through a stack of colorful slips of paper, and tore off a Post-it with a decisive motion. With a worn-out pen, she scribbled down the street name, the number, and the name of the dry cleaner’s.
You watched her write, unconvinced. You had no idea what “the old-fashioned way” was supposed to mean in that context, and part of you was already bracing for disappointment. Still, you nodded politely and accepted the note she handed you.
You wished her all the best before leaving the shop, your clothes cradled in your arms, carrying with you the quiet certainty that you expected nothing… and, at the same time, already felt just a little disappointed.
Kaminski Kleaners.
You stood still for a few seconds beneath the sign, your brow slightly furrowed as you looked up at the letters painted above the storefront.
You sincerely hoped the K instead of a C had been intentional—a clever play on words to make the name more memorable—because the alternative, a permanent spelling mistake emblazoned across the sign, would have given you a prejudice that would have been difficult to overcome before you’d even stepped inside.
According to the sign posted on the window listing its services, the dry cleaner’s was so close to the building where you worked that you felt almost foolish for never having noticed it.
The alley concealed it well, to be fair. It was narrow, sheltered beneath the constant shade of taller buildings, and the shop occupied a modest, unassuming space. Still, it looked well cared for: spotless windows, light-colored curtains, no clutter visible from outside. There was something quietly dignified about the way it presented itself, as though it didn’t need to shout for customers. It was content with what it had.
You pushed the door open.
The first thing you noticed was the scent. Not strong, not chemical, but soft and comforting. A delicate fabric softener filled your nose and your lungs until, for a brief moment, you could almost taste a gentle hint of vanilla on your tongue.
Then came the muted hum of the machines. It wasn’t the impersonal clatter of a self-service laundromat, but a soft, steady sound—almost reassuring, like a deep breath.
“Mornin'.”
The voice caught you off guard, pulling you back to reality, and your head turned sharply toward it.
Behind the white counter stood a young man. A neatly kept beard framed his face, softening otherwise rugged features, while light brown hair fell messily across his forehead, as though he never really had time to tame it. He watched you with deep gray eyes, waiting, a freshly cleaned dress hanging from the hanger in his hands, likely about to be placed on the rolling rack behind him, already filled with garments neatly arranged by color and fabric.
“Good morning,” you replied calmly, almost professionally, instinctively tightening your hold on the folded clothes draped over your arm before approaching the counter and placing them carefully on its smooth surface. “I was told this place still offers dry cleaning using traditional methods.”
As you spoke, he hooked the hanger onto the rail behind him, guiding it silently along the metal track. Then he returned to you, absentmindedly drying his hands on a clean cloth.
He calmly explained the process: longer turnaround times, separate treatments depending on the fabric, manual inspections before and after cleaning. He spoke without rushing, choosing simple words, as though he felt no need to impress you—only to be clear. And as you listened, you realized he wasn’t trying to sell you anything.
At the end, he gave a small nod, as though suddenly remembering something.
“I’m Walter, by the way. But everyone calls me Lion.”
You inhaled slowly before turning your attention back to the folded clothes in front of you, arranging them neatly so they weren’t stacked on top of one another.
“I do need to be very clear, though,” you began, adopting the professional tone you used whenever you wanted to establish firm boundaries. “I expect my clothes to receive… meticulous attention.”
Lion tilted his head slightly. His expression grew more attentive, but he listened without interrupting.
“They’re all custom-made. Delicate fabrics. Some can’t be treated with harsh solvents, others shouldn’t be pressed at high temperatures. And…” You hesitated briefly, almost annoyed by your own rigidity before continuing, “I prefer every item to be thoroughly inspected before and after cleaning.”
There was no arrogance in your voice, only an almost defensive necessity. Those clothes were armor. They accompanied you into courtrooms, protected you, spoke on your behalf before you ever opened your mouth.
Very few people understood the reason behind your obsession.
Mrs. Esposito had been one of them.
Lion, however, didn’t seem intimidated or irritated. He simply nodded with a calmness that caught you off guard.
“No problem,” he said. “I’ll take care of it.”
You hesitated before adding, “And I’ll need them done quickly.”
Another pause.
“Very quickly.”
He blinked, as though mentally calculating the timing and the process, but he didn’t object.
You, meanwhile, had already looked elsewhere.
You turned naturally toward the small customer area, pulled out a chair, and sat down, crossing your legs. Your laptop came out of your bag in one fluid motion. You opened it, and the screen immediately illuminated your face with rows of documents, unanswered emails, and highlighted legal notes.
Your fingers began moving across the keyboard.
For a few seconds, all you heard was the rapid clicking of the keys and the steady hum of the machines. Then you sensed something.
A presence.
Someone watching you.
You looked up.
Lion was still standing behind the counter, completely still, looking unmistakably uncertain.
“When you say quickly…” he asked, blinking in confusion, “…do you mean right now?”
You looked at him over the top of your screen.
“Of course. Right now. I’ll wait here.” You paused briefly before adding, “If I’m not causing too much trouble.”
The young man’s pale eyes widened at your remark, and you could have sworn you saw a faint blush rise to his cheeks.
“Oh, n-no! Not at all!” he stammered quickly. “I’ll… get started.”
Still looking slightly flustered, he gathered your clothes and disappeared behind the cleaning area, beyond a light curtain that swayed gently in his wake.
Your attention returned to your laptop, and you tried to focus.
You really did.
You opened a complicated contract, reread clauses, revised wording. But something gradually shifted.
The atmosphere of the dry cleaner’s seemed to slip quietly beneath your skin. The steady rhythm of the machines softened your thoughts, while the gentle lighting made even your computer screen seem less harsh.
Your shoulders relaxed without you noticing, your breathing slowed, and the tension you’d accumulated throughout the day—the endless meeting, the phone call with an arrogant client, the looming deadline—began to dissolve, like paper left soaking in water for too long.
Inevitably, your gaze drifted beyond the monitor and settled on a small table behind the counter.
You hadn’t noticed it before.
A simple, store-bought tea set decorated it: a neatly arranged box of tea bags, a small electric kettle, and a plain white mug.
It looked like a tiny private corner he had managed to carve out for himself inside those few square meters already crowded with machinery.
The rustle of the curtain announced Lion’s return, but you barely noticed until he followed your gaze and asked gently,
“Would you like a cup while you wait?”
You looked back at him, surprised by the naturalness of the offer.
Your first instinct was to refuse. To say you were fine and had merely been looking around, but something about the way he looked at you made you reconsider.
“I could really use a coffee…” You barely gave it a second thought, but the awkward way he shifted his weight from one foot to the other softened something inside you. “…but I’d appreciate it anyway. Thank you.”
His face brightened slightly, bringing out the faint, endearing lines across his forehead.
He looked genuinely pleased as he retrieved a paper cup from an unopened package inside a side cabinet drawer, poured hot water into it, and added a tea bag.
Steam slowly curled upward, and the water quickly turned a rich golden color as he gently stirred the bag.
“I’m sorry about earlier,” he said while preparing the tea. “People don’t usually stay. They drop off their clothes and come back later. You caught me a little off guard…”
His last words lingered in the air.
To break the awkwardness, you started to stand so you could walk over and take the cup from him.
He was quicker.
He walked around the counter with surprisingly quiet steps and stopped in front of you, offering you the tea with a careful… yet slightly hurried gesture.
For the first time since entering the shop, you noticed that his hands trembled slightly.
Not an obvious tremor, but a subtle vibration that caused tiny ripples to spread across the surface of the tea.
His fingers were covered with small adhesive bandages, carefully applied but already fraying around the edges, stretching from his knuckles almost to the base of his nails.
Lion seemed to notice where you were looking the very moment you relieved him of the cup’s weight.
He immediately pulled his hands back, almost on instinct, stuffing both into the pockets of the heavy hoodie he was wearing like a boy caught doing something wrong.
For a moment, the urge to ask what had happened swept through you.
Asking questions, looking for details, piecing together the whole picture—that was second nature to you, an occupational hazard.
But something about the way he’d hidden his hands made you keep quiet.
It wasn’t a secret that wanted to be questioned, so you let your curiosity pass.
“I was told you only opened recently,” you observed instead, steering the conversation back to neutral ground.
You blew gently across the tea and tried to take a sip, but immediately pulled back with an automatic little movement.
It was still too hot.
“Yeah,” he replied, leaning lightly against the edge of the counter while keeping a respectful distance. “I saw an opportunity and took it. The rent isn’t too expensive, and I didn’t have to make many changes to the place besides buying the machines…”
His eyes wandered briefly around the shop, as though seeing it alongside you.
There was no showy pride there.
Only a quiet sort of affection.
“And how’s business?” you asked, absently studying the rows of garments hanging behind him. You’d had your doubts when you’d walked in: the alley was hidden, the location easy to miss. Yet there were quite a few clothes waiting to be collected.
“The beginning wasn’t exactly great,” he admitted with a crooked smile. “But… I think I’ve built up a loyal customer base now. Around thirty people come at least once a week, maybe twice. The rest are occasional customers.”
“And is that… enough for you?” you asked, unable to hide all of your skepticism.
Lion didn’t answer immediately.
He genuinely seemed to think about the question, as though he’d never considered it in those terms before.
“It is,” he finally said simply. “I’m not looking for a life I have to keep chasing. I did that for a long time.”
You frowned slightly.
It was a concept you simply couldn’t understand.
Your life had always been about the next goal, the next important case, the next achievement to reach before someone else did.
You had always been locked in a relentless battle against time.
And yet he spoke of that choice as though it had set him free, not held him back.
You remained silent for a while, watching the thin steam rise from the tea before dissolving into the warm air of the shop.
You couldn’t remember the last time silence hadn’t made you uncomfortable.
Usually, it meant someone was waiting for a brilliant answer from you, or that you needed to fill it with arguments, numbers, solutions.
Here, nothing was expected of you.
Lion didn’t seem in any hurry to speak, nor did he feel the need to entertain you.
He simply remained by the counter, present yet unobtrusive, as though sharing the same space was already enough.
You tried the tea again.
This time, it had cooled enough to drink, and its delicate flavor slowly spread across your tongue.
It wasn’t anything sophisticated, probably just an ordinary commercial blend.
And yet it warmed you more than any drink ever served in an elegant conference room.
The sound of a machine in the back caught both of your attention at the same time.
“Those should be yours.” He gestured over his shoulder. “I’ll just…”
The unfinished sentence sounded almost like he was asking permission to excuse himself.
You smiled faintly at his excessive politeness and nodded.
Lion disappeared beyond the light curtain leading to the cleaning area.
Almost at the same moment, you drifted into a kind of pause.
Your shoulders slowly sank against the back of the chair, losing their invisible tension, and your legs relaxed, your foot finally stopping its nervous bouncing.
You simply stayed there.
The laptop remained open on your lap, its screen now gone into standby.
Just like you.
Your eyes settled on an indistinct spot on the wall—a tiny imperfection in the plaster you’d never noticed before—and stayed there.
You weren’t thinking about the files waiting for you the next day.
Or about anything else, really.
For the first time in (you couldn’t remember how long), you weren’t thinking about anything.
The sensation was so unfamiliar it was almost dizzying.
As though your mind, stripped of its constant background noise, had suddenly become weightless.
For a moment, you felt as though you were floating, suspended in a quiet place where time was in no hurry.
You couldn’t have said how much time had passed.
“They’re ready.”
Lion’s voice returned softly, drawing your attention back.
You looked up and watched him lay your clothes on the counter one by one with precise, careful movements.
The jackets were perfect.
The creases were crisp.
The fabrics gleamed exactly as only Mrs. Esposito had ever managed before…
and now, not only her.
You closed your laptop and slipped it back into your bag before standing and approaching the counter, your credit card already between your fingers.
“I hope the wait wasn’t uncomfortable,” he said cautiously, as though worried he’d wasted your time.
You looked at him for a moment before letting out a small breath that almost sounded like a restrained laugh.
“It’s the first time I haven’t thought about work for more than half an hour,” you admitted.
Lion lowered his eyes slightly, visibly embarrassed.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured immediately, extending the card reader so you could tap your card against it.
You shook your head.
“There’s no need to apologize.”
Your voice was softer than you expected, interrupted only by the beep confirming the payment.
“I meant it in a good way.”
It was Thursday when you came back.
You knew it more from the weight of the day than from the calendar. Difficult weeks weren’t measured in days, but by how much of them still clung to you by evening—and the following morning. And this had been one of those weeks.
A complicated case. An impossible client. Nights that were too short and mornings that came too quickly. You had handled it well—of course you had—but there had been no satisfaction in it, only the feeling that you’d clawed your way through it by sheer force of will.
So it wasn’t a surprise when, after arriving at the dry cleaner’s and finishing your cup of hot tea, you drifted into a deep sleep in the chair.
Lion watched you longer than he would have watched anyone else.
At first it was only a distracted glance while his hands were occupied elsewhere, but slowly his attention settled on you, held captive by the peaceful expression on your face.
The tension that usually defined your features—that faint crease between your brows, your jaw always held just a little too tight—had melted away.
For the first time since he’d known you, you weren’t on guard.
You almost looked… at peace.
He noticed the way your body, despite your composed posture, began to betray you in tiny ways. Your head tipped slightly to one side, as though searching for an invisible support, and stayed there for a few seconds before some instinctive reflex pulled it upright again.
It didn’t last.
Only a few breaths later, the cycle began again, and your body leaned farther and farther, completely yielding to gravity.
Your head slipped sideways, your neck gave way without the quick correction you’d managed before, and Lion held his breath as he hurried toward you, counting silently.
Six seconds.
Seven.
Eight.
You didn’t straighten up.
When he reached you, he cautiously extended his bandaged hand, as though stepping into a space that wasn’t entirely his, even if this was his own shop, and gently caught your shoulder, stopping your fall.
Lion felt the exact moment sleep left you.
His fingers had only just tightened slightly around your shoulder when your eyes flew open and locked onto his, piercing straight through him.
He pulled away immediately. His fingers curled into themselves, and he took half a step back, instinctively putting distance between you, as though afraid he had crossed a line.
“I’m sorry—” he blurted out at once, too quickly, his voice tighter than he’d intended. “I didn’t mean to wake you, but you looked like you were in an uncomfortable position.”
The words tumbled over one another, betraying genuine concern.
His gray eyes stayed fixed on you, alert, searching for any sign of annoyance, irritation—anything that would confirm he’d done the wrong thing.
But you didn’t react that way.
You simply blinked several times, as though trying to piece the world back together. Your gaze moved slowly from him to the room around you, lingering on the shop as if seeing it for the first time, before you raised a hand to your face.
“Fuck…” you muttered, your voice still thick with sleep. “How long was I out?”
Lion relaxed, just a little. Not much, but enough to let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
“Only about half an hour,” he replied gently, trying to ease any possible embarrassment.
He watched you absorb the information.
You didn’t seem upset.
More like… surprised.
Maybe you were human after all, he thought.
“…I’m sorry,” you added.
That made him hesitate.
Lion tilted his head slightly, confused.
He didn’t understand why you were apologizing. You hadn’t done anything wrong.
He opened his mouth to tell you so, but you continued before he had the chance.
“When I’m here…” you said, slowly sitting up straighter. The movement was controlled, though noticeably less rigid than usual, as though sleep had loosened something inside you. “…it’s the only time my work life ever allows me to relax.”
Lion remained silent but not out of awkwardness.
He was simply listening.
He watched you draw in a slow breath, as though trying to explain something you yourself hadn’t fully understood.
“It doesn’t happen anywhere else,” you continued more quietly. “Not even at home.”
Something warm settled inside him at those words.
His gaze dropped for a moment before returning to you with renewed attention.
He must have done something right if someone like you had felt safe enough to fall asleep here.
A faint smile touched your lips, and Lion found himself watching your white teeth for a brief moment.
“I think it’s the smell,” you added with a lightness that couldn’t quite hide the truth. “The fabric softener. It’s… ridiculously relaxing.”
Lion couldn’t help smiling in return.
“I’ll make sure I never lose that supplier, then,” he replied, joining in on your joke.
He watched you straighten your jacket and smooth away the wrinkles before the question escaped him almost on its own.
“You work at the law firm across the street, don’t you?”
He saw you hesitate, only for an instant, but it was enough.
Then you nodded.
“Something like that,” you admitted.
A moment later, with carefully measured wariness, you asked,
“What gave it away?”
Lion took a second before answering.
Not because he was choosing his words, but because he was trying to translate a feeling into them.
“I don’t know…” he admitted at last. “You all have the same look about you.”
One of your eyebrows rose slightly.
“Diligent and serious?” you guessed, your sarcasm light.
Lion answered without thinking.
“Tired and sad.”
Your reaction was immediate. Not obvious—not something anyone else would have noticed—but Lion, quick as a boxer, caught it anyway.
For the briefest fraction of a second, your expression lost its balance, as though something beneath the surface had cracked.
Your eyebrows shifted. Your jaw tightened. Then, just as quickly, you became unreadable again.
“I mean—” he hurried to add, suddenly feeling the need to tidy up a sentence that had become too true far too quickly. “That’s just what I’ve heard… A lot of you complain whenever you stop by.”
You frowned.
“Oh? And what do they say?”
Lion hesitated.
He wasn’t used to repeating customers’ conversations, least of all to someone directly involved.
Then he gave up.
“They just say that one of their bosses is kind of a sadist who’s willing to do anything to win a case… even if it means torturing everyone who works for her.”
He spoke more quietly, almost embarrassed to repeat it.
He watched you afterward, expecting a stronger reaction. Instead, there was only silence.
Then…a faint smile.
“How… charming,” you commented.
Lion let out a small sigh, unsure whether things had gone better or worse than expected, scratching the back of his neck before letting his hands fall to his sides.
“You seem like one of them,” he said eventually. “But you don’t seem like someone who complains.”
You tilted your head, studying him from the tips of his shoes all the way up to his hair, making him feel thoroughly observed—and openly judged.
Then you spoke.
“Anyone who’s unwilling to give absolutely everything for the profession they chose should probably give it up and do something else. I’m proud of what I do, even if it consumes all of my time.”
Your words lingered between you for several long seconds.
Lion didn’t answer immediately.
Not because he hadn’t understood them, but because he seemed to need time to set them somewhere inside himself, the way one carefully places something fragile without quite knowing where it belongs.
He had only just opened his mouth to respond when you were already moving.
You stood, walked past him toward the counter where he’d left your clothes before waking you, and he hurried after you to process the payment.
He stepped behind the counter, still searching for a proper response to what you’d said while entering the amount into the card terminal, when the shop door opened.
The bell chimed softly.
Two young people walked in, chatting to each other.
The moment they crossed the threshold, however, their voices died instantly.
Their shoulders stiffened.
“Good evening, boss.”
Lion heard it clearly.
The respect.
The fear.
Without meaning to, he looked at you.
“Good evening,” you replied without hesitation, casting one last glance over your shoulder before turning back to Lion.
You placed your card against the terminal he’d set on the counter and looked up at him.
Under different circumstances, you probably would have laughed at the expression of pure shock painted across his face.
He seemed mentally trapped between two points: you and the customers who had just walked in.
His gray eyes darted back and forth, now fully aware of the situation.
“The receipt, Mr. Kaminski,” you said, extending your hand.
The way you pronounced his surname snapped him back to reality.
Lion blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Then he moved.
“Right—yes.”
His fingers worked a little faster than necessary, and when he handed you the receipt, he couldn’t avoid meeting your eyes.
A flash of amusement lit up your gaze.
Then, as though nothing at all had happened, you turned on your heel with your clothes in your arms and walked out of the shop, leaving him wondering whether he’d just accidentally set off a bomb.
When you returned to the dry cleaner’s on Monday evening, the exchange between the two of you was brief.
You dropped off your clothes without lingering and went to your usual seat, pulling out the book you’d left half-finished the previous evening, just before you’d drifted off to sleep.
From the moment you’d walked through the door, though, you’d been aware of Lion’s gaze on you—persistent and tense.
When the silence seemed to have stretched on long enough, you decided to put an end to it.
“I can feel your nerves all the way over here, Kaminski. They’re making it difficult to concentrate.”
An amused smile curved your lips.
He startled, as though you’d caught him red-handed.
He was still standing behind the counter, his hands resting on its surface as he smoothed the same wrinkles for what must have been the tenth time. The warm LED lights illuminated half his face, emphasizing his short beard and the faint dark circles beneath his eyes—the kind earned by someone who’d been working all day.
“I… I, fuck… about the other day… I’m really, really sorry,” he stammered, finally letting out all the anxiety and self-doubt that had hounded him throughout the weekend. “I didn’t know you were the person they were talking about… I never would’ve said those things if I’d known—”
“And why not?” you interrupted calmly.
You closed your book with measured care, keeping one finger between the pages to mark your place, as though you weren’t quite ready to abandon it.
“You were only repeating other people’s opinions,” you continued, lifting your gaze to him. “We live in a free country, don’t we?”
Lion swallowed.
His gray eyes were wide, painfully sincere. He looked more like a child being scolded than a grown man running his own dry cleaner’s.
“Are you… going to do something to them?”
You slowly raised an eyebrow, letting the silence linger just long enough to watch him blush all the way to his ears.
“Are you asking because I’m a sadistic woman?”
“No! No, I don’t think that! I—”
You let out a laugh.
A real laugh.
One that surprised even you.
That man had an uncanny ability to draw the most genuine reactions out of you.
“Relax, Mr. Kaminski,” you said, shaking your head. “I’m teasing you. Do you really think this is the first time I’ve heard someone call me a bitch behind my back? Do you think I’d be where I am today if comments like that could provoke me?”
He hesitated, assuming it wasn’t really a question.
But when the silence continued, he answered anyway.
“No, ma’am.”
“Exactly.”
You absently toyed with the book’s cover, curling its edges beneath your fingertips.
“Life is made of constant battles and sacrifices.”
With a small tilt of your chin, you gestured toward his hands.
Embarrassed, he quickly shoved them into the pockets of his hoodie.
The bandages had been changed, but the scars were still visible: pale lines, thick calluses, marks left behind by a life entirely different from yours.
“I imagine you understand that,” you allowed yourself to add.
He briefly looked away toward some indistinct spot on the counter.
“I do…”
Then, as though a sudden wave of curiosity had struck you, you closed your book completely and rested it across your lap, giving the young man your full attention.
“What do you think of me?”
His beautiful eyes lifted to yours, caught off guard.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
Lion ran a hand through his messy hair.
He seemed to search for the right words on the floor, on the machines, anywhere but your face.
“I think… you’re a woman who enjoys the silence and the peace of my shop.”
“That’s all?”
He looked as though he wanted to add something.
You saw him bite the inside of his cheek—a tiny gesture that drew your attention to how full his lips were, how strong the line of his jaw looked beneath his beard.
Then he chose the safer path.
“That’s all.”
“Hm.”
Your gaze drifted back to his hidden hands.
“Are you the type to get into fights?”
“Why?”
“Your hands,” you explained, raising your own—immaculately groomed, coated in clear polish, without a single visible imperfection.
“Oh!” He laughed, genuinely amused by your observation. “No, nothing like that. The calluses split during training.”
“You’re a boxer,” you concluded.
“I was. Professionally. Now I just do it in my spare time… for fun.”
You studied him for several seconds before slowly shaking your head with genuine bewilderment.
“I’ll never understand why people insist on practicing sports like that.”
Lion blinked and offered a faint, bittersweet smile as he absentmindedly adjusted one of the wraps around his little finger.
“All I can tell you is that it pulled me out of a very dark period in my life.”
Then he looked at you with a disarming gentleness.
“It’s therapeutic for me.”
You stared at him, surprised.
Despite your bluntness, there wasn’t the slightest trace of accusation in his eyes. Only quiet acceptance, as though he was used to being seen exactly as he was, without filters.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
He shrugged.
“You know… it might help you let off some steam too.”
“You think I’m someone who needs to let off steam?”
He didn’t answer right away.
The answer was so obvious it didn’t need to be spoken.
Instead, he smiled, enough to light up his eyes in a way that suddenly made you feel… entirely too seen.
“What do you say about tonight?” he asked. “I won’t be closing the shop late today.”
You froze for a moment.
“T-Tonight? Kaminski, tomorrow I have a—”
“For once,” he interrupted gently, “try breaking formation.”
A small smile tugged at his lips.
“Seriously, what could possibly happen?”
You weren’t entirely sure how it had happened.
Four hours earlier, you’d walked out of the dry cleaner’s with your heart pounding from nerves and the gym’s address scribbled on a Post-it tucked inside your bag. And now, here you were, in an alley parallel to the glass-and-steel building where you worked, standing before an unremarkable door beneath a faded sign that read: Boxing & More.
The smell of rubber and polished wood hit you the moment you stepped inside.
The gym was tiny: four makeshift rings, a couple of heavy bags hanging from the ceiling like silent sentries, and a handful of weight machines and benches scattered around.
Lion was already waiting for you in the nearest ring, throwing punches at his sparring partner.
He left you speechless.
Literally.
He was wearing black boxing shorts, snug around his hips and loose around his thighs, a pair of worn training shoes, and… nothing else.
His bare, smooth torso gleamed beneath the harsh fluorescent lights, probably from the sheen of sweat covering it. It wasn’t the overinflated physique of a fitness influencer; it was lean, functional, long muscles moving beneath his skin like taut cables.
When he turned toward you, you caught sight of a curious tattoo—a large cross decorating one side of his torso.
It suited him.
He’d always carried an air of quiet devotion.
His hair was damp, brushed back with his fingers, and when he saw you walk in, he stopped abruptly, as though he’d momentarily forgotten what he was supposed to be doing.
Your throat suddenly felt dry as your eyes traced the line of his shoulders, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way his narrow waist disappeared into the waistband of his shorts.
Heat climbed from your neck to your ears.
You weren’t used to this kind of attraction.
It was primitive.
Physical.
Almost animalistic.
It caught you so off guard that, beneath the young man’s delighted gaze, you forced yourself to say the first vaguely sensible thing that came to mind.
“I’m telling you right now—I have no intention of taking off my shirt.”
You tugged lightly at the hem of the oversized gray hoodie you’d hurried home to grab. Underneath, you wore nothing but a sports bra and leggings, and you already felt exposed enough as it was.
He smiled faintly, a brief flash of white canines, and shook his head as he hopped lightly out of the ring, landing soundlessly on the wooden floor.
“I never would have asked you to,” he said, his voice rough with the dryness of someone who hadn’t had water in hours.
You walked over, and he glanced around until his eyes landed on what he’d been looking for.
A pair of boxing gloves lay abandoned on the edge of the raised ring.
Lion studied them for a moment, assessing their condition before turning back to you.
He held them out with an uncertain look.
“I didn’t think to buy a new pair, but these should be okay…”
“They’re perfectly fine, Kaminski,” you replied, hoping to ease his anxious expression as you took your new equipment from his hands.
You slipped them on without much trouble.
They felt at least a size too big, your hands moving a little too freely inside them.
Not that you were an expert.
As you began wrapping the hand wraps around your wrists, the sound of someone clearing their throat drew your attention back to the young man standing in front of you.
“What?” you asked.
“You’re doing it wrong…” he corrected gently, pointing at the way you’d twisted the wrap around your left wrist. “May I?”
You frowned but shrugged, raising your hands straight out in front of you.
You couldn’t exactly object.
You knew how dangerous it was to box without proper support.
His rough, scarred hands brushed yours as he unwound the fabric and rewrapped it correctly around your skin, tightening it with meticulous care, though surprisingly quickly.
From this close, the scent of his sweat reached you immediately.
It was almost completely masked by deodorant.
Who wore deodorant to the gym?
He stepped away before you had time to think of an answer and moved toward the small training area where several large black heavy bags hung from the ceiling.
You followed hesitantly, flexing your hands inside the oversized gloves and feeling the wraps prevent your wrists from bending awkwardly.
Lion rested one hand against a heavy bag and stood beside it, watching you approach.
“We can start here,” he said, giving the bag a firm smack. “Don’t worry about perfect technique for now. I just want you to hit it.”
You felt ridiculous in your oversized hoodie and gloves that were too big, but Lion’s steady confidence made it easy to trust him.
You planted your feet the way you’d seen people do in movies, drew a breath, and threw your first punch.
It was weak.
Almost timid.
Your wrist nearly buckled from the impact.
The bag barely moved.
Lion didn’t laugh.
He simply looked at you, determined.
“Again. Harder. Don’t let your wrist go soft when you hit.”
The second punch was better.
The third, better still.
With every impact, you felt something inside you begin to loosen: the frustration of the week, the tension trapped in your shoulders, the voices of your clients that had been echoing relentlessly inside your head.
The heavy bag began swinging harder.
So did your breathing.
Lion circled around you, correcting you in a low, patient voice.
“Turn your hips. Shift your weight. That’s it. Again.”
Your arms began to burn, heavy as lead, and every punch seemed to pull another piece of strength from your body.
Sweat trickled down the back of your neck, slid between your shoulder blades, followed the curve of your spine, and collected between your breasts beneath the now-soaked fabric of your shirt.
Your hair clung to your temples and forehead.
You didn’t care.
There was only you…and the bag.
After several minutes, your breathing became shorter, more ragged.
Your shoulders protested every extension of your arms.
Your forearms trembled with fatigue, and your knuckles throbbed warmly inside your gloves.
Just when you thought you’d reached your limit, Lion caught the bag with both hands.
“Okay.”
His voice reached you, distant but amused.
“You’re doing great so far.”
So far?!
You looked at him with one eyebrow raised.
Your chest was still rising and falling rapidly, and you weren’t sure you had enough oxygen left to form a proper complaint.
Instead, you shot him a look that clearly said: Don’t tell me that was just the warm-up.
As though he’d read your mind, Lion turned toward a nearby bench, picked up a pair of focus mitts, and slipped them on with quick, practiced movements.
Then he came back.
He planted his feet on the mat, bent his knees slightly, and raised the padded mitts to chest height.
His entire demeanor changed instantly.
Less relaxed.
More focused.
“Good.”
He gestured with one mitt.
“Now hit wherever I tell you. Left. Right. High. Low. And don’t think.” His eyes stayed locked on yours. “React.”
You stared at him for a long moment, still bent forward with your gloved hands braced on your thighs while trying to catch your breath.
Then you let out an unenthusiastic laugh.
“Kaminski…” You inhaled deeply. “…I appreciate your enthusiasm…”Slowly straightening up, you nodded toward the mitts. “…but I’m not trying out for the national boxing team.”
For a brief moment, Lion’s expression changed.
The timid smile faded from the corners of his mouth, and he instinctively lowered the mitts.
“Are you tired?” he asked with disarming sincerity. “Do you want to stop?”
The question hit you harder than it should have.
Something tightened in your stomach.
Stop?
No.
You had never quit anything in your life.
Not during your studies. Not at work. Not when everything seemed determined to stand in your way.
And you certainly weren’t about to start because of a pair of focus mitts.
Before you even realized it, your fist was already moving.
It wasn’t the hardest punch you’d thrown all day.
Far from it.
It was tired, weighed down by exhaustion…but sudden.
Thump.
Your glove struck the mitt Lion had lowered.
He blinked in surprise before slowly lifting his eyes to yours.
“Let’s keep going.”
At first, you followed his instructions with complete concentration.
Left.
Right.
High.
Left-right.
The rhythm was steady.
Your gloves struck the mitts with a satisfyingly dull smack, and Lion moved lightly on the balls of his feet, absorbing every punch with apparent ease.
After a few minutes, your brain registered the repetition and switched to autopilot.
That was exactly when you lost focus.
Instead of listening to his calls, you found yourself watching him.
Under the gym’s fluorescent lights, Lion Kaminski looked like an entirely different person.
He moved with a confidence you’d never seen in him before, his weight perfectly balanced, his feet always ready to change direction.
His shoulders and chest tightened and relaxed in one continuous flow, while a thin sheen of sweat slid down his neck and over his collarbones.
His gray eyes remained focused on your movements.
There wasn’t the slightest trace of the almost chronic awkwardness he carried behind the counter at the dry cleaner’s.
He wasn’t stammering.
He wasn’t looking away.
He wasn’t hiding his hands.
He was in complete control.
It was difficult to reconcile this man with the young guy who, only a few days earlier, had nearly spilled an entire cup of tea because he’d been so nervous.
For one absurd moment, you even wondered whether he had a twin brother you didn’t know about.
What did you actually know about him?
Who was his family? Did he have a girlfriend? A boyfriend? Who was Lion Kaminski?
Your distraction cost you.
“High right.”
You heard the command a fraction of a second too late.
You twisted your torso too aggressively, trying to make up for the lost time, but the mitt was no longer where you’d expected it to be.
Your punch missed completely…
and landed squarely on his chin.
The sound was sharp.
Brutal.
“Fuck!” you gasped, your eyes widening in panic.
You closed the distance between you immediately, trying unsuccessfully to pull your gloves off as you hurried toward him.
“Kaminski, I’m so sorry… let me see.”
Your gloved hands rose instantly to his face, gently pushing his own hand away from his mouth as you tried to inspect the damage.
He didn’t resist.
He let his arm fall back to his side and remained perfectly still, allowing you to come close.
With the padded glove, you gently tilted his chin toward the light.
His skin was only slightly reddened.
But a small cut had opened along his lower lip, and a thin line of blood had already begun to trickle down.
“Shit…” you murmured, a knot tightening in your stomach.
You leaned even closer, trying to get a better look, and a warm breath stirred the loose strands of hair that had fallen across your face.
Only then did you realize how close you were.
Both of your labored breaths filled the narrow space between you, breaking softly against each other’s skin.
Your glove froze instinctively, unwilling to break the moment you were suddenly sharing.
His gray eyes remained fixed on yours.
Then they drifted ever so slightly lower…coming to rest on your lips.
All at once, you became aware of every detail of his closeness.
The warmth of his body.
The steady rhythm of his breathing.
The rise and fall of his chest only inches from yours.
Then, as though you’d burned yourself, you jerked backward, taking a quick step away.
“I… sorry,” you murmured, lowering your hands and looking away.
What the hell were you apologizing for?
For punching him in the face or for practically throwing yourself at him like a woman driven by desire, falling straight into the oldest cliché imaginable?
Lion wiped the back of his hand across his lip, cleaning away the thin streak of blood, and shook his head, uncertainty returning to his expression.
“It’s nothing, really. Nothing for you to worry about…”
Then, eager to break the tension, he added quickly, “You’ve got a hell of a right hook.”
Despite everything, the comment made you laugh.
You shook your head as you finally managed to pull one glove off.
“You should put some ice on that, Kaminski,” you suggested, still avoiding his eyes.
“Lion.”
“Hm?”
You looked up to find him watching you intently.
“After taking a punch to the face from you, I think formalities are unnecessary.”
A faint smile tugged at his split lip.
“Call me Lion.”
After that first training session, it became surprisingly difficult to say no whenever Lion suggested a sparring session.
Not that you ever really tried.
Besides the dry cleaner’s, the gym became your safe haven.
What had started as a way to release tension soon turned into a regular appointment. A couple of times a week, you found yourselves at the gym: a few minutes of warm-up, focus mitts, a few rounds of light sparring, and almost always a conversation afterward, sitting on the edge of the ring or on a bench, still slightly out of breath.
With him, you felt comfortable in a way you hadn’t experienced in months.
There was no need to weigh every word or maintain a certain image of yourself. You could show up nervous, in a bad mood, exhausted, and he seemed to accept it without making a problem out of it. He listened, asked the right questions at the right moments, and when he spoke, he never gave the impression that he wanted to fix your life or tell you what you should do.
So, almost without realizing it, you had started telling him everything.
The days spent in court, the hearings that left behind a kind of exhaustion that was difficult to explain, impossible clients, relatives who never gave you a break, nights spent tossing and turning in bed, and so on.
You poured every thought crowding your mind onto him, and you weren’t afraid of his judgment simply because it seemed like there wasn’t any.
He just listened.
It was only after a few weeks that you realized something.
You were an open book to him, while Lion remained a mystery to you.
Every time you tried to ask him something about his past, his family, or even just how he had ended up running a dry cleaner’s and training like a professional boxer, the conversation changed direction with an almost suspicious ease.
Sometimes he answered with a joke.
Other times with a vague sentence.
And other times still, he smiled and asked you a question instead, completely turning the conversation around.
He was good at listening.
But much less skilled at letting himself be known.
He seemed like a door that was always slightly ajar—open just enough to make you believe you could step inside, but never truly wide open.
At least, not until that day.
It was a late afternoon when, after finishing a particularly complex case report, you returned to the dry cleaner’s to drop off a couple of pieces you would need for the following week.
It was raining.
Outside, the sky was a uniform gray, the water fell heavily onto the sidewalks, and the sound of the rain mixed with that of cars driving through puddles.
You could have brought the clothes the following morning before going into the office, but a part of you wanted to return to relax in that small, safe space.
When you opened the door, the bell chimed as always.
The smell of detergent and clean fabrics welcomed you along with a wave of warm air. A customer was about to leave, her shirts neatly wrapped in plastic, and she gave you a distracted smile as she tucked her umbrella under her arm.
You returned the same polite greeting before she left and placed your closed umbrella in the umbrella stand near the entrance.
“Hey, finished early?” Lion asked from behind the counter as he watched you approach and leave the suits on the surface for him to take.
“Today, yes. Lucky day.”
Unlike usual, Lion didn’t stop to chat but quickly picked up the clothes and passed through the curtain separating the work area from the customer area, leaving you alone.
You assumed he was particularly busy, so you decided to sit at the small table near the window, which Lion had set up in recent times after realizing you would be visiting him frequently.
You opened the tablet you kept in your bag and opened the shared file you had edited most recently. You tried to focus on it, but as usual, the calm and relaxing atmosphere of the dry cleaner’s took over your senses.
You were about to close your eyes and let yourself drift into a nap when a metallic, echoing noise exploded through the shop.
Before you could react, another dull crash followed, like something heavy falling onto the floor, accompanied by a barely audible sound: a strangled cry of pain.
The tablet almost slipped from your hands as you shot to your feet.
“Lion?”
No answer.
You abandoned your tablet and bag on the table and crossed behind the counter without thinking, throwing open the dividing curtain.
The scene in front of you stopped you for a moment.
Lion was kneeling on the floor, surrounded by shirts and coats that had fallen from the rack. Several heavy metal hangers, probably torn loose from the support, were scattered beside him.
He had clearly tried to stop them before they fell.
The sharp edges of the metal had cut through the gauze wrapped around his hands, and blood was already seeping heavily through the white fabric.
“Hey!”
You immediately knelt beside him and noticed the way he hid his hands from your sight.
“Let me see.”
Lion remained crouched down, shoulders hunched, arms wrapped tightly around his stomach.
“Lion, let me see,” you repeated, your tone firmer as you took his arm and pulled it free from his position, even though you probably shouldn’t have.
You quickly removed the stained bandages from his skin to assess the damage, and once you did, your breath caught in your throat.
His knuckles were swollen and trembling uncontrollably.
Not because of the minor cuts he had just sustained, but because of years of inflammation. The joints of his fingers were thickened, slightly deformed, the skin stretched unnaturally.
It only took you a moment.
Arthritis.
The realization hit you like a punch to the stomach.
That was why some mornings it took him longer to open the shop. That was why, sometimes, you saw him tense slightly before lifting a laundry basket or gripping something heavy. That was why, without ever really noticing, he almost always kept his hands hidden: in his pockets, beneath the counter, inside boxing gloves, wrapped in gauze.
He wasn’t trying to protect them.
He was trying to hide them.
Lion followed your gaze and immediately understood.
The color drained from his face.
Instinctively, he curled his fingers closed, as if he were still in time to take them away from your sight, but it was too late.
“I… it’s just…” he tried to say.
The words died in his throat.
He lowered his eyes to his own hands, unable even to look at you. His shoulders hunched further and further, as if he wanted to disappear from the face of the earth.
It was the first time you had truly seen him without defenses.
The man who moved confidently in the ring, who always seemed to have control of the situation and who, with a single look, managed to make you feel calm, was trembling in front of you now.
A tear slowly traced down his cheek.
He quickly wiped it away with the back of his hand, almost annoyed by that betrayal from his own body, but it didn’t matter.
Another followed.
Then another.
He tried to turn away, to breathe, to pull himself together like he always did, but something inside him gave out.
The crying came freely, broken by uneven breaths and muffled sobs that seemed to belong to someone who had held everything inside for far too long.
There was no anger in those tears.
Only an immense exhaustion.
That was why you didn’t even think for a second.
You gently took his wrists, careful not to brush against his injured joints, and guided him toward you.
“Hey…” you whispered. “It’s okay.”
For a moment, he remained completely still, almost unsure whether he was allowed to let himself do that, but then he stopped resisting.
He let himself fall against you with a trust that tightened something in your chest, hiding his face in the crook of your neck. You felt his body tremble, his shoulders shaken by sobs, his broken breathing muffled against your collarbone.
You held him gently, as if one wrong movement would be enough to break him.
“It’s okay, Lion…” you murmured.
One hand moved up to slowly caress his back, following slow, steady motions, while you used the other to support the back of his neck, your fingers lightly running through his short hair.
You stayed like that for a few minutes, helping him let everything out and guiding him back toward a calmer, steadier state. His sobs became less and less frequent until they disappeared completely, and you didn’t let him go until he was the one who pulled away from the embrace first, albeit hesitantly.
His gaze fell on the lapel of your jacket, now stained with his tears.
His cheeks flushed red.
“Sorry…” he murmured, barely above a whisper. “I made a mess.”
You lowered your eyes as well, looking distractedly at the damp fabric.
“It doesn’t matter.” You looked back up and gave him a calm smile. “You’ll wash it anyway, won’t you?”
For a moment, he seemed unable to understand.
Then a short laugh escaped him, still thick with tears.
“Right…”
The embarrassment didn’t disappear completely, but it eased enough to make his shoulders relax slightly.
You took his hands gently, although this time not to examine them, but simply to hold them between yours.
You smiled to yourself.
They had stopped trembling.
“The wounds aren’t deep. I’d say we can put on some disinfectant and redo the bandages. What do you think?”
Lion shook his head slightly.
“I can do it myself…”
“I don’t mind.”
You interrupted him naturally, not giving him time to insist.
You gestured toward the chair at the table he used when he was probably inspecting clothes for imperfections.
“Sit there.”
He obeyed without arguing.
Near the wall was the small first-aid kit, the one every building was required to keep available. You opened it, taking out disinfectant, sterile gauze, and a couple of clean bandages.
When you returned to him, you knelt slightly in front of the chair and held out your hands, prompting him to do the same.
Lion took a breath and offered you his hands, in a sort of reversed version of when he was the one wrapping your boxing gloves around your wrists.
You touched them carefully, trying not to put pressure on the swollen joints while you finished removing the old bandages you had never had the chance to touch before.
For a few minutes, the only sounds in the room were the rustling of gauze and the click of the disinfectant bottle.
He was the one who broke the silence.
“When it rains…” he said quietly, continuing to watch your hands at work. “It seems to get worse.”
You lifted your eyes slightly.
“Arthritis?”
He nodded.
“Yes… a form of osteoarthritis.”
“I understand.” You simply observed.
“They’re horrible.”
The words came out almost spat, filled with an anger that didn’t seem directed at anyone in particular except himself. He continued staring at his own hands as if he couldn’t look at anything else.
“I hate them.”
Your fingers didn’t stop moving. You continued wrapping the bandage around his knuckles with the same care as before, smoothing the fabric to avoid folds that could bother him. Only when you reached the end did you slowly lift your gaze.
You looked at him with such a serious expression that he almost felt intimidated.
“Don’t say that.”
Lion lowered his eyes with a tired, bitter smile.
“But it’s true.”
You shook your head slightly.
You finished the last turn of the bandage around his final finger and secured the end with a small piece of medical tape.
“Well…” you said, still looking at that hand between yours. “I don’t hate them.”
He let out a short, humorless laugh.
“You’re just saying that.”
Lion looked away, convinced you were only trying to comfort him out of pity. It was an expression he knew well, the one people had when faced with something they couldn’t fix and tried, at least, to make it easier to bear with a kind lie.
You, however, continued looking at his hands.
They were large, strong, worn down by work and by years spent hitting bags and jaws. And yet, as you held them in yours, you couldn’t see anything repulsive about them.
You saw only everything they had endured.
With extreme delicacy, you took one of his hands between both of yours. You turned it slightly, observing the back of it, tracing the outline of his swollen knuckles with your thumb.
Then, as if it were the most natural gesture in the world, you leaned down.
Your lips brushed against his skin.
It was the lightest kiss, barely there, warm more than anything else. It lasted only a couple of seconds, but it was enough to make Lion tense.
You felt the muscles in his hand instinctively tighten beneath your fingers.
When you pulled away, he was still motionless.
He looked at you with wide eyes, unable to hide his astonishment. It was as if his brain had stopped working, unable to make sense of what had just happened.
You held his gaze without any embarrassment.
“I never say anything just for the sake of saying it, Lion. Believe me.”
With that, you turned around and bent down toward the fallen hangers and scattered clothes, beginning to pick them up silently.
And while you focused on that, Lion slowly lowered his eyes toward the hand you had kissed, as if he were seeing it for the first time.
His fingers moved slightly, uncertain, brushing over the back of it, and you missed the moment when his lips touched the exact spot where yours had been.
The alarm clock started vibrating at exactly six thirty, with that metallic and insistent sound that Lion had been promising himself he would change for at least a year.
He opened his eyes slowly, without making the slightest attempt to turn it off immediately. He remained still, still wrapped in the warmth of the blankets, his gaze lost on the ceiling of the apartment built above the laundromat.
The silence was unusual. For days, it had been accompanied by the constant tapping of rain against the windows and the roof, a sound that had kept him company but that, at the same time, had made every awakening a little heavier.
That morning, however, there was only quiet.
He turned his head slightly toward the window.
The clouds were still there, thick and gray, but a pale light filtered through them, hinting at a sky that seemed willing to grant a reprieve.
He slowly moved his fingers beneath the blankets.
The joints were stiff, but not like the day before. The pain was still there, a dull ache that seemed to have permanently settled inside his knuckles, but it was bearable.
It had been a week since he had been able to go to the gym, but today seemed like the right day.
He sat on the edge of the bed and remained there for a few seconds with his forearms resting on his knees. Only then did he begin the small ritual he now knew by heart: slowly opening and closing his hands about ten times, bending his fingers, rotating his wrists, waiting for the tendons to stop protesting.
It was at that moment that he thought of you.
It happened almost every morning by now whenever he started his exercises.
Only a few weeks had passed, yet the memory remained incredibly vivid.
He saw your hands again as they patiently loosened the dirty bandages, your attention to detail, the gentle yet firm way you handled them.
And then he remembered the rest.
The moment when everything he had held back for years had exploded with no possibility of stopping it.
He still felt embarrassed at the mere thought of it.
He had never cried in front of anyone except Stan and Sky. It had seemed so unnatural to do it with someone else now.
He closed his eyes for a moment.
He remembered perfectly the feeling of your embrace. The warmth of your neck against his forehead. Your hand slowly caressing his back, without rushing, giving him all the time he needed.
And then there had been that gesture.
His gaze automatically dropped to his right hand.
His fingers moved slightly, as if he could still feel it.
Your lips. So light they had almost seemed imaginary.
He ran a hand over the back of his neck, almost embarrassed that he had thought about it again. It was already over, and you had never brought up the subject again. You had probably already forgotten about it.
And he should have done the same.
Too bad he couldn’t.
Throughout the day, thoughts of you returned several times: while he folded shirts, while he loaded a machine, while he changed the bandages on his hands. Every now and then he smiled to himself without realizing it, happy that he would finally be able to spend time with you again after training, after more than a week of nothing but fleeting glances and quick conversations while you waited in the laundromat, interrupted by customers.
That evening, at Boxe & More, the air was filled with the smell of sweat and rubber and the background noises of the other guys who continued their training.
You had finished yours a little while earlier.
Lion leaned against the ring ropes, a cold protein drink in his hands, trying to recover.
You had walked down toward your gym bag a few meters away from him.
You had insisted on adding just one last set of abs and a few minutes of shadow boxing, ignoring his protests that you had already done enough for the day. At that moment you were breathing deeply, your hands resting on your hips, your chest still rising and falling with the rhythm of exertion.
Lion, distracted as he watched you like he had other times, saw you grab the hem of your wet shirt and pull it upward in one fluid motion. Underneath, you wore only a tight black sports top that left most of your back and shoulders exposed, their skin gleaming with sweat. The muscles of your arms and abdomen were damp with sweat, your skin flushed from the workout.
Lion felt his throat go dry despite having just hydrated himself.
He couldn’t look away as you grabbed the towel and ran it over your neck, your collarbone, between your breasts. Every movement was natural, unconscious, and he felt a sudden heat rise from his neck to his cheeks. The fire quickly moved lower, concentrating insistently between his legs. His body reacted before his mind could stop it.
He gripped the bottle tighter, trying to focus on the cold plastic against his palm.
At that moment, you turned toward him.
“Lion, do you have a protein bar or a gel? I must have finished mine.”
Your voice violently pulled him away from his thoughts. With an almost desperate reflex, he lowered the drink in front of his crotch, covering himself casually while pretending to check the label.
“Yes… give me a second.” he replied, his voice rougher than usual. He cleared his throat and quickly turned toward his bag, giving you his back to hide the redness coloring his face and the obvious bulge in his shorts.
While rummaging through his things, he tried to steady his heartbeat and adjusted his pants into a position that made the protrusion at the front less noticeable.
He needs to calm the fuck down.
He grabbed a protein bar and turned back toward you, trying to maintain a normal expression.
“Here.”
“Thank you.” You smiled at him, grabbing the snack and shaking it victoriously.
Lion snapped back almost instantly, as if someone had just elbowed him in the ribs.
“I… I’m going to take a shower.”
The sentence came out faster than expected. He didn’t even wait for your answer: he picked up his bag from the bench and headed toward the locker rooms with a pace perhaps a little too quick to seem natural.
When he came out, about twenty minutes later, he felt much more clear-headed. He looked around, checking whether you were waiting for him in your usual spot, but there was no sign of you.
You were obviously still in the locker room.
The young man let himself drop against the brick wall just outside the gym doors and waited, wrapping himself in his padded hoodie. The evening was dry, without humidity, but no less cold for it.
He unlocked his phone and began absentmindedly scrolling through his Instagram feed, without actually looking at anything. He was hungry and didn’t feel like cooking. Should he order takeout? Stan wouldn’t have been happy about it. He always said junk food did nothing but worsen his performance.
“Hi.”
A female voice made him look up. In front of him stood a girl with brown hair tied into a high ponytail and a youthful face. She looked very young.
“I’ve seen you here often.” she continued with a smile.
Lion blinked, surprised. “Ah… yeah.” He returned the smile out of politeness. “Are you a member?”
“Yes.” She adjusted the bag on her shoulder. “It’s just that, because of work, I always used to come a little earlier. I would leave and you would come in. I think we crossed paths a couple of times.”
“Probably.”
A brief silence followed.
“Do you like it here?” he asked, more out of courtesy than genuine curiosity.
“Actually, I do.” She nodded. “Although it would be helpful to have someone guide me a little. Or even just someone who could stop me from spending half my workout wandering around the gym pretending I know what I’m doing.”
She laughed.
Lion smiled as well. He liked knowing that people were enthusiastic about the gym. That would lead to more memberships and maybe even better equipment and more advanced machines.
“You can ask at the front desk. They have some really good personal trainers.”
For a moment, the girl looked at him as if that answer wasn’t exactly what she had expected.
“Actually…” she hesitated with a slightly more shy smile. “I was thinking about you.”
Lion tilted his head slightly.
“Me?”
“Yes.” She shrugged a little. “I always see you training. You seem… good.”
He remained genuinely confused.
“Thank you, but I’m not a personal trainer.”
Another silence.
The girl lowered her eyes for a moment, then smiled again with a hint of embarrassment.
“No, I meant… maybe we could train together sometime.”
Only then did Lion begin to understand.
Wait…
Is she hitting on me?
The realization left him almost stunned.
He was searching for an answer that wouldn’t sound rude when, over his shoulder, the door to the women’s locker room opened.
You stepped out, absentmindedly running a hand through your hair while searching for something in your bag with the other, still unaware of him. Lion’s gaze was completely drawn to you.
Everything else suddenly seemed to lose importance.
The girl in front of him, the conversation, the gym, the sound of weights.
For a second, he simply stared at you.
It was a sudden feeling, almost overwhelming in its simplicity.
It wasn’t just the fact that he found you beautiful. It wasn’t only desire. It wasn’t even just the gratitude he felt for everything you had done for him.
It was the way he searched for your face whenever he entered a room. The way his days always seemed a little better when he knew you would train together or that you would stop by the laundromat. The fact that, without realizing it, every happy thought he’d had lately inevitably ended up with you at the center.
The realization hit him with an almost disarming clarity.
He was in love with you.
Not maybe. Not he could be.
He was.
The girl’s voice brought him back to reality.
“So…” she said with an uncertain smile. “Do you want to exchange Instagram?”
Lion looked back at her, and this time the answer seemed incredibly simple.
“I’m sorry.” He smiled kindly. “But I’m not interested.”
She nodded, trying not to let her disappointment show too much.
“I understand… no problem.”
It was right at that moment that you reached them.
“Everything okay?” you asked, looking first at Lion and then at the girl with a hint of curiosity.
“Yes.” he answered almost immediately. He took a step toward you and, in a gesture so spontaneous it surprised even himself, gently grabbed your wrist, guiding you along with him.
“Shall we go?”
Then he gave the girl one last polite smile.
“Have a good workout.”
She returned the greeting with a small wave, watching the two of you walk away together.
Only when you were far enough away did Lion realize he still hadn’t let go of your wrist. He released it almost abruptly, feeling himself blush.
“Sorry…” he murmured, using the same hand to lift his bag into a more comfortable position on his shoulder.
You, however, seemed not to have given it any importance. In fact, your thoughts seemed to have wandered elsewhere…
“She was pretty.”
“What?” he asked, caught off guard.
“The girl. She was pretty.” You said it without turning around, your gaze fixed ahead, your tone neutral.
Lion swallowed. You seemed completely uninterested, as if the matter didn’t affect you in the slightest.
Of course, he thought with a tight feeling in his chest. How could someone like you care about someone like him? You were just being kind.
“…I guess so.”
The answer came out almost automatically.
You nodded slightly, as if commenting on the weather.
“Did she ask you out?”
He grimaced.
“Something like that…”
“Well… I guess she’ll have to wait, then.”
Lion stopped dead.
You took a couple more steps before noticing that he was no longer following you. You turned around and found him standing still in the middle of the sidewalk, with an expression so confused it almost made you smile.
“What do you mean… by she’ll have to wait?”
The smile that appeared on your lips was different from usual. More shy and vulnerable than normal.
You stepped closer, slipping your hands into your jacket pockets.
“Well…” You lowered your gaze for a moment, almost searching for the right words. “I saw you first, after all.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
Lion said nothing, didn’t even blink. He simply kept looking at you.
It was that very silence that began to crack the confidence with which you had said those words.
Your smile faltered slightly, and you felt the heat quickly rise to your cheeks.
“Oh my God…” you laughed nervously, shaking your head. “I mean… if that’s something you’d like!” The words started pouring out like a flood, overwhelmed by the embarrassment of your mistake. “It was stupid to say that, what I meant was—”
“Fuck yeah!”
Your voice died at his sudden exclamation, and your smile quickly returned, making you shine beneath the streetlight above you.
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before lion wins the main event you, one of the gym’s house girls, corner him with a dangerous promise : a real kiss… and so much more. word count : 6k
ᰋ ˓ . contents. house girl / ring girl! reader, illegal underground boxing & gambling, blood, fighting / violence, smoking, house girl / ring girl themes, objectification, unwanted flirting / touching from side characters, jealous! stan, references to a make-out session with stan, stan’s jealous of lion because of your attention, semi-public, teasing, dirty talk, humiliation, BIG dick! lion (canon), handjob-adjacent, orgasm denial, male!masturbation, sexual frustration, exploitative setting. mdni 18+
ᰋ ˓ . notes2u. omgg finally something to go along with this imagine… this is not part of my locked up fics (so there’s still a little handful) AND i’m glad to have it finally done ! i’m already mapping out another part for this not going to lie to y’all 👩🏾💻 also, so there’s no confusion, a ‘house girl’ is officially a ‘ring girl’ that does more in the whole scene of it all. and yea… i used that same pic again in the header… i could not find anything
By ten-thirty, the old gym on West Twenty-Seventh gives up pretending it is closed.
The steel gate sits halfway down over the front door, low enough to make every man duck when he comes in, and the hallway behind it smells like wet concrete, stale piss, and the oily heat of bodies packed too close together.
Somebody has a boombox going near the back, bass rattling thinly beneath the shouting, while the men at the door take cash without writing anything down and wave people through with folded bills already damp in their palms.
The place used to be a boxing gym years ago, before the mirrors cracked and the owner stopped caring what happens after midnight, but on fight nights it turns into something uglier and better paid with bad light, dirty money, and men lining up to watch somebody bleed.
You’ve been working since the first envelope hit the table.
Your heels stick faintly to the floor every time you shift your weight, and your lipgloss has gone tacky from talking, smiling, drinking from somebody else’s cup, and letting men lean close enough to think they have a chance. Gold hoops brush your neck when you turn your head. Your dress rides high when you bend over the betting table to slide bills into stacks, flashing the bottom curve of your ass to anyone lucky enough to be standing behind you.
There are names you remember because they matter, names you remember because they owe money, and names you let men repeat three times because it makes them feel important.
A house girl does what the night needs, and tonight the night needs everything from you: pretty face at the door, sweet laugh by the bookies, sharp eye on the side bets, warm hand on a fighter’s arm when the room needs a show.
A man from Staten Island tries to catch your wrist near the wall and gets your smile instead, soft enough to shame him before the doorman notices. Another one kisses the air beside your cheek and tells you he’ll win enough tonight to take you out somewhere nice, and you tell him he has to win enough to pay back last week first, and he laughs because he thinks you’re flirting.
Stanley comes looking for you while you’re counting a payout with a cigarette tucked behind your ear and your gloss freshly touched in the cracked bathroom mirror. He slides into the narrow space beside the table, restless and pleased with himself, all cheap cologne, fight-night sweat, and a hungry grin he wears whenever his brother’s name has the room buzzing.
“There she is,” he says, close enough that his sleeve brushes your bare arm. “Thought you were hiding from me.”
“If I was avoiding you, Stanley, you’d know.”
He laughs at that, though his eyes drop to your mouth before he can help it. Stan always has a way of looking at you like he’s remembering something he wants you to remember too.
One sloppy stairwell kiss after a fight two months ago has turned into a private joke for him, a little claim he likes to pull out whenever you get too close to somebody else. You let him kiss you because he was riding high on money and cheap whiskey, because his mouth was there, because the night was loud and you were bored. He was decent at it, confident in that restless, hungry way of his; but Stan kisses like he is trying to talk his way into your panties with his tongue, like he is trying to win something, and you’ve never been interested in handing him a trophy.
“Big night,” he says, tapping two fingers near the money as if the table belongs to him. “My boy’s the reason half these bastards showed up.”
“Your boy?”
“My brother, then.” His grin sharpens at the correction. “Everybody wants to see if the Queens kid can put him down.”
“Can he?”
Stan makes a face like you spit in his drink. “Don’t say that near him. He’s already quiet enough.”
“He’s always quiet.”
“Yeah, well, he gets worse when pretty girls start asking questions.” Stan leans closer, his voice dropping into that teasing register he uses when he wants to remind you he once had his tongue in your mouth. “You walking him out tonight?”
“Depends what I’m asked to do.”
“I’m asking.”
“You don’t run shit.”
“No,” Stan says, “but I run him.”
It lands uglier than he means it to, or maybe exactly as ugly as he means it to.
Around you, the gym keeps moving: a bottle knocks against a table, somebody curses near the ropes, a girl with cherry-red nails laughs too loudly at a bookie’s joke. You look at Stan until he notices the way your smile has thinned, and he lifts both hands as if surrender has ever suited him.
“You know what I mean,” he says.
“I do,” you answer, gathering the bills and sliding them into the right envelope.
Stan watches your hands work, annoyed and amused at once, the way he usually gets when you refuse to give him the easy version of yourself.
Before he can turn the conversation back into flirting, the promoter calls your name from across the room and jerks his chin toward the rear hallway. You leave Stan standing there with his unfinished grin and make your way through the crowd, taking a drink from one man’s hand to pass to another, catching a whispered payout change near the wall, letting a regular from Newark kiss the back of your knuckles because he’s just lost fifty dollars and needs to feel charming.
The hallway behind the main room is hotter, narrow enough that your shoulder brushes old fight posters peeling from the cinderblock. The crowd noise dulls back there, turning thick and muffled behind the closed doors. Fighters warm up wherever they can find space: one shadowboxing near the mop sink, one sitting on a crate while his cousin rubs something sharp-smelling into his shoulders, one bent over with both hands on his knees while a girl tells him to breathe through his nose. The whole place smells like sweat, liniment, and damp towels.
Lion sits at the far end under the flickering fluorescent, elbows resting on his thighs, hands wrapped and hanging loose between his knees.
He isn’t built like the brutes who strut around the circuit pretending bulk makes them more dangerous. Lion is leaner than that, cut tight through the shoulders and stomach, compact muscle under bruised skin. He isn’t much taller than you when you wear heels, which makes the way he avoids your eyes even more interesting, because he cannot hide behind size or distance.
His robe hangs open down the front, loose over black shorts that sit low on his hips. There’s a bruise fading along one rib, yellow at the edge, ugly purple at the center. His hair’s already damp, though he hasn’t fought yet, and when he looks up at you, his mouth stays closed around whatever he is thinking.
You come close enough for your perfume to mix with the sharp scent of tape and sweat.
“Look at you,” you say, your heel nudging the inside of his sneaker as you stop in front of him. “Everybody’s out there acting like you’re already dead.”
His mouth moves like he might smile, but he doesn’t quite make it. “That bad?”
“Packed room. Mean crowd. Too much cash on the table.” You tilt your head, eyes dragging over the taped knuckles, the strong line of his forearm, the rise and fall of his chest under the loose robe. “So, yeah. Bad.”
Lion looks past you, maybe searching for Stan, maybe trying not to look at where your dress sits high on your thighs. “Stan said it’s good.”
“Stan says a lot.”
That gets the almost-smile again, faint and gone fast, and you like that about him more than you have any good reason to.
Most fighters give you too much before you even ask, hands on your waist, mouths at your ear, all greasy confidence men mistake for charm. Lion gives you almost nothing, which makes every little slip feel worth taking. A glance at your legs when you cross them. A swallow when your nails graze his wrist. The faintest flush when you stand close enough that your dress brushes his knee.
You crouch in front of him, low enough that a few men farther down the hall look over, and take one of his taped hands in yours as if you have been sent to check the wrap. Nobody has sent you. Stan has done a clean job for once, tight across the knuckles and neat around the thumb, but you smooth your fingers over the gauze anyway, slow enough to feel him tense. His hand is warm and heavy in yours, the bones hard beneath the tape, and the restraint in him makes something low in your stomach curl with amusement.
“You nervous?” you ask.
“No.”
“No?” Your thumb passes over his knuckles again, and his fingers twitch once before he gets them still. “You’re sitting like you swallowed a brick.”
His eyes flick toward the main room, then back to you. “Not about fighting.”
You smile before you can stop yourself, slow and glossy, and watch his gaze catch there again.
The poor thing has probably had girls kissing his cheeks after wins for months, has probably had tits pressed to his arm in photos and lipstick smeared on his jaw because promoters know how to make blood look like a party, but he still reacts to your mouth like he hasn’t figured out whether it's a threat or a prize.
Stan comes in before you can answer, already talking, already moving, already filling the room with buzzing manager’s energy. “There you are. Don’t distract him too much, huh? Need him mean, not stupid.”
“He was already looking stupid when I got here,” you say, not taking your eyes off Lion.
Lion looks down, but not fast enough to hide the heat rising in his face. Stan catches it too, because Stan catches everything when it involves something he thinks might be taken from him. His grin goes sharp at the edges as he looks between you, and the brotherly pride in him sours into something more personal.
“You hear that, champ?” Stan says, stepping beside him and gripping the back of his neck. “She’s got jokes tonight.”
Lion doesn’t answer. His eyes are on your hand, still holding his, and you let the silence stretch until Stan’s fingers tighten at his brother’s nape.
The robe has slipped farther open over Lion’s torso, sweat gathering already along his collarbone from the heat of the hall. The v of his hips disappears beneath the waistband of his shorts, and you remember, not for the first time, the glossy mark you left there weeks ago with half the room shouting over the camera flash. That picture has followed him from gym to gym, copied badly and pinned up wherever men like to laugh at things they secretly want.
You treat it like a joke because it was one, mostly. Lion has never quite learned how to laugh about it.
A shout comes from the main room, calling for the next walkout, and Stan slaps Lion’s shoulder hard enough to make the robe shift.
“Up,” he says. “Time to earn.”
Lion stands, and you rise with him, close enough that he has to look at you properly. You reach for the front of his robe and smooth it open instead of closed, fingers passing over his chest, down the center of him, lingering at his stomach just long enough for his muscles to pull tight beneath your nails.
Stan stops mid-sentence.
You give Lion the smile men have been spending money for all night and lower your voice until it belongs to him more than the hallway. “Win tonight and I might give you a real kiss.”
The promise sinks into him visibly, his eyes dropping to your gloss with no pretense left. A real kiss, not the cheeky little pecks girls leave on fighters for the camera, not the public mess of gloss and cheers and dirty jokes, not your mouth low on him while a room full of men howls for the picture. Lion understands the difference, and that makes him look flushed and caught, as if you have reached into his shorts instead of only touching his chest.
Stan laughs, though it comes out tight. “Come on, don’t put that in his head.”
“I’m putting it wherever he keeps winning from,” you say.
Lion’s voice comes low, roughened by the noise around you. “Might?”
“Depends how pretty you look after.” Your fingers pat his stomach once before you step back, and his abdomen jumps under the touch.
Stan mutters something about the Queens fighter’s left hand, about keeping distance, about not letting the crowd rattle him, but Lion keeps looking at you like the rest of the room has gone soft around the edges. You turn away just enough to pull your cigarette from behind your ear and tuck it into the front of Stan’s jacket for safekeeping, a petty little move that makes his brows lift.
“Don’t lose that,” you tell him.
Stan smiles because he thinks the gesture means he still has a piece of your attention.
The walkout swallows all three of you in smoke and noise. Stan goes first, arms up, selling the crowd on money he hasn’t counted yet, while you take Lion’s arm and step out beside him.
Your hip brushes his thigh with every pace, your hand curling around his forearm while your bracelets are cold against his skin.
The room roars as soon as they see him, men shouting his name, girls whistling, somebody near the ropes yelling that he wants another dirty picture if Lion makes it out standing. You feel him tighten beside you, the old memory of your gloss low on his hip moving through him even though he keeps his face forward.
“Don’t look so scared,” you murmur, smiling for the crowd. “They’ll think I bite.”
His answer comes quiet, almost swallowed by the noise. “Do you?”
The question surprises a laugh out of you, low and pleased, and Stan, walking ahead with his arms thrown up for the crowd, misses it completely. You lean closer, your gloss nearly brushing Lion’s shoulder. “Win and find out.”
By the ropes, you let go of his arm slowly, your nails dragging once over the tape at his wrist before he climbs in.
The Queens fighter is already bouncing on the balls of his feet, throwing kisses toward the girls and grinning around his mouthguard, broad with show and loud with himself.
You give him a smile because smiles are free until they start costing men money. Lion notices, his jaw shifting, and you almost laugh.
Stan gets in his ear at once, talking strategy, hands moving too fast as he points across the ring. Lion listens, or pretends to. His gaze keeps finding you near the front, where you stand with the other girls under the dirty light, arms crossed beneath your chest, dress riding up your thighs as you lean back against the table edge.
The bell cracks through the room, and the fight lurches into motion.
The Queens boy comes in ugly, heavy hands and too much grin, throwing the first shot hard enough to snap Lion’s head to the side. The crowd loves it, naturally. They always love the first blood best, especially from a man they have paid to believe cannot be broken.
Lion resets his feet and wipes his mouth with the back of his taped hand, his eyes low, his shoulders tight, waiting for the other man to get careless. He takes another hit to the ribs, bends with it, and somewhere near you a gambler groans because he’s bet wrong and knows it already.
You watch Lion’s mouth more than his hands.
Blood gathers there after the third exchange, bright at the corner, smearing when his tongue passes over it. Sweat runs down his chest and catches in the shallow dip of his stomach. His shorts cling lower with every clinch, waistband dark with damp. When the other man drives him back near your side of the ring, Lion’s eyes cut briefly toward you through the ropes.
You lift your brows, touch two fingers to your gloss, and smile.
He slips inside the next swing and drives a short punch into the Queens boy’s ribs, compact and mean, not pretty enough for the posters but perfect for making a man fold. Another lands at the jaw. The sound of it cracks through the front row, and the girls beside you shriek with delight while men throw themselves forward against the ropes. Stan is screaming from the corner, face red, voice breaking, already spending the win in his head.
The fight turns up after that, all clinch and sweat and bare knuckles dragging along skin. Lion takes one more hit that splits his lip properly, and the blood makes him look less sweet, less unsure.
Queens goes down hard enough to make the mat jump.
Noise bursts through the gym, bodies surging, cash waving overhead, men cursing and laughing as if they have survived the fight themselves.
Stan is in the ring before the other fighter finishes rolling onto his side, grabbing Lion by the wrist and hauling his arm up while the promoter shoves in close and the house girls rush the edge.
Lion stands there with his chest heaving, lip split, hair damp against his forehead, tape reddened over one hand, eyes already searching past Stan, past the men, past the girls calling his name.
You stay where you are near the front, one hip against the betting table, gloss shining under the lights.
A drunk regular shouts for you to give him another one, and somebody else picks it up, laughing about the old photo, asking if Lion has earned a matching mark. You let them make their noise, let them think they know which part of you is performance and which part is appetite.
Lion’s gaze finds yours across the crush, and the room seems to press in harder around him once he realizes you aren’t coming over yet.
You lift your hand, kiss your fingertips, and send it toward him with all the cheap sweetness the crowd deserves.
The disappointment moves over his face before he can hide it, and you turn back to the money before it makes you too pleased with yourself.
Lion’s dragged from one body to the next with blood still drying at his mouth, lipstick smeared along his cheek where another girl kissed him, somebody’s hand clapped too hard against the bruise near his ribs. Stan keeps him close at first, one arm hooked around his neck, dragging him toward men with fat envelopes and wet smiles, selling the win all over again as if Lion’s split lip is something he personally purchased.
Across the room, you stay busy in every way that makes him look.
You bend over the betting table with both palms flat on either side of a cash stack while the promoter leans in to argue numbers, and Lion’s eyes cut to the way your dress rides higher on your thighs, before he looks away like he’s been caught doing something worse than fighting illegal bare-knuckle in a locked gym after midnight.
You let one of the girls tug you by the chin near the bar, her thumb smearing away the corner of your gloss before she fixes it with a little tube she pulls from the top of her stocking, both of you laughing while she tells you to stop biting your lips unless you plan to put them to use. A gambler tries to slip an arm around your waist when you pass him his payout, and you peel his hand off with a smile so sweet it makes his friends laugh at him. Every few minutes, you turn just enough to find Lion watching, and every time you do, you give him nothing but the shine of your mouth and the back of your shoulder as you move on.
Somebody tries to shove a drink into his palm, and he takes it without drinking, eyes still searching over the rim of the cup until he finds you near the rear hallway, counting bills against the wall with your cigarette finally lit between two fingers.
You look up just as he starts toward you.
And, naturally, you turn away.
By the time he slips past the main crush and reaches the hall, you’re gone through the side door where the noise thins into muffled bass, dirty laughter, and the buzz of the old fluorescent lights.
Lion follows because the promise has been sitting in his mouth since before the fight, hotter than blood, worse than thirst. He has your words in his head, the low drawl of them, the way your nails had touched his stomach while Stan stood there pretending not to care. Win tonight and I might give you a real kiss. He’s won, and now the whole rotten building feels too small around the wanting you left in him.
The back hallway is narrow, lined with dented lockers and old posters curling at the corners, the air damp from the showers and thick with the smell of bleach failing to cover sweat and cum. You’re halfway down it, alone now, leaning against the cinderblock with one ankle crossed over the other, cigarette between your fingers and a money envelope tucked beneath your arm.
You lift your eyes when his shadow reaches you, and your smile comes slow.
“You lose something, Kaminski?”
His chest is still rising too hard from the fight, though the fight has been over long enough for him to know better. Blood has dried at the split in his lip. His robe is gone, his shorts riding low. He’s looking at you as if none of that room has touched him as deeply as your promise did.
He shifts his weight, glances once toward the main room as if checking whether Stan has followed, then looks back at you with the helpless honesty that keeps making you meaner than you plan to be.
“You said if I won.”
The words come out quiet, almost rough from being held too long, and something hot and amused unfurls in your stomach. Most men would have dressed it up, made a joke of it, crowded you against the wall with a grin and tried to collect before you could change your mind.
You take one last drag of your cigarette, blow the smoke aside, and let the silence rub against him until his jaw works.
“I said I might,” you murmur, stubbing the cigarette out on the rusted edge of a wall ashtray.
His face drops just enough to make you laugh under your breath.
Poor thing. Split open, blood-warm, cocky only with his fists, standing there with half the room’s lipstick on him and still looking like he could be ruined by being told no.
You tuck the cash envelope behind you on top of a busted radiator, then step closer, close enough for his eyes to dip to your mouth again.
“Don’t look like that,” you say. “You’ll make me feel cheap.”
Lion starts to answer, but you catch his jaw before he can, fingers pressing lightly against the bruise blooming near his cheek. He smells like sweat, copper, smoke, and cheap motel soap gone thin from the match.
You pull him in, and when your mouth touches his, the first thing he does is freeze.
It lasts only long enough for you to feel it. Then he kisses you back with a rough little sound caught in his throat, one hand hovering near your waist before landing there carefully.
You smile against his mouth because his caution is almost cute in a place like this, with blood drying on his chin and money changing hands twenty feet away. His lips are warm, split, clumsy at first, then greedy when you lick into his mouth and taste the metallic edge of the fight still sitting there.
He follows your lead too fast, opening when you press him for it, breathing harder when your tongue drags over his, his fingers tightening at your waist until the sequins of your dress bite into your skin.
Somebody laughs in the main room as a door slams near the showers, and Lion doesn’t move away, not even when you push him back against the cinderblock and step between his feet, your body pressing close enough for him to feel the heat of your tits through the thin front of your dress. He kisses like he’s trying to learn and spend at the same time, mouth chasing yours whenever you pull back to breathe, lips catching at your gloss, smearing it across his own mouth until the red of his blood and the shine of you make a filthy mess of him.
“You wanted that bad, huh?” you whisper against his lips.
His answer is a breath, barely shaped. “Yeah.”
The honesty is so quick that it makes you laugh, and the sound does something to him. His hand slides lower on your waist, and you let him feel the curve of your ass beneath his palm before you kiss him harder. His hips shift without meaning to, and you feel it then: the thick, heavy press of him through his shorts, already rock-hard and leaking from a kiss he had waited all night to collect, and your hand moves before he can find the nerve to be embarrassed.
Lion jerks when your palm settles over him.
The sound he makes goes straight through you, strangled and low, his head tipping back against the wall while your hand cups the throbbing length through the damp fabric. He’s not loud, not yet at least, but every piece of him gives him away: the tight pull of his stomach, the way his fingers dig into your hip, the flush climbing his neck, the shape filling your palm in a way that makes your brows lift before you can stop them.
You knew he was lean, quiet, all compact muscle and restraint, not one of those big bruisers who used their size to crowd a room; you had not expected this fat, heavy dick against your hand, this thick, veiny monster that makes the shyness in him feel almost ridiculous.
“Lion,” you breathe, dragging your palm over him slowly, “you been walking around with this and acting scared of my mouth?”
His eyes squeeze shut, and the blush that tears over his face is worth every dollar in the room.
Your hand moves again, firmer, rubbing the length of him through his shorts while your mouth drags along his jaw, over some other girl’s lipstick, down to the corner of his bruised mouth. He tries to kiss you and groan at the same time, managing neither gracefully. His hips twitch into your palm once, then he catches himself, mortified by how quickly you have him slipping. That’s when he turns his face away from yours.
“Maybe I shouldn’t,” he says, breathless, voice scraped thin.
Your hand stills, though you keep it right where it is, cupping his balls and stroking the thick length with enough pressure to make his stomach jump. “Why?”
Lion looks down the hallway, away from your eyes, away from your mouth, away from the hand still holding him like you have every right. He swallows, shoulders tight, and the answer comes out low enough that the humming light almost eats it.
“I’m a little short on cash.”
For a few beats, the hallway loses all its humor.
You stare at him, hand slipping away from the front of his shorts as your mouth curls, not into a smile this time. He feels the absence immediately. You watch it register through his whole body, the panic, the regret, the realization that whatever he thought he was saying has landed wrong.
“I’m not a hooker, Lion.”
His face burns red so fast it would be funny if he didn’t look genuinely sick over it. “No, I didn’t—” he starts, then stops because he has no idea how to fix it without making it worse. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sorry,” he says, too quick, his hands lifting from your waist like he has lost permission to touch you. “Stan said—people say things, and with the girls, and the pictures, and I thought maybe—” His mouth tightens around the rest of it.
There it is, the ugly little rot under the glitter, the room’s old assumption crawling into his head because everything around him comes with a price. The drinks, the kisses, the photos, the pretty girls hanging off fighters’ arms while men shove money across tables.
He’s spent too long being sold by his brother to understand when something is being given just because you feel like giving it.
You step back in before he can apologize himself into the floor.
Your hand grabs the front of his shorts this time, not gentle, bunching the fabric enough to pull him off the wall, and the kiss you give him is meaner than the first.
He gasps into it, surprised, then melts so fast it nearly annoys you. Your tongue pushes into his mouth, swallowing whatever apology he still has left, and he kisses back with a desperation that makes the whole cash misunderstanding feel almost useful. His hands return to your waist after a hesitant second, gripping harder when you don’t slap them away.
“You insult all the girls who kiss you,” you murmur, your mouth brushing his, “or am I special?”
“No,” he breathes, shaking his head, trying to follow your lips. “No, I’m just—”
“Stupid?”
His laugh breaks out of him like a cough, embarrassed and rough. “Yeah.”
“At least you know.”
You palm him again before he can recover, and this time the pressure is deliberate enough to make his knees soften. He bites down on a groan as your fingers stroke him through the fabric, slow at first, then crueler because the hallway is empty and he’s too pretty like this, flushed and bloodied and trying not to rut his fat dick against your palm.
His forehead tips near yours. His breath comes wet against your gloss. He keeps trying to kiss you, messy and needy, his mouth more certain now that he has stopped pretending he is fine.
When you pull back, his eyes look ruined.
You let your hand drag once more along him, up his cock trapped beneath his shorts, feeling the way his whole body tightens toward it, and then you step away with a smile that makes him blink like you’ve hit him.
“You can pay for the rest.”
Lion stands there against the wall with your gloss smeared on his mouth and his cock hard enough to show through his shorts, breathing like the fight has started all over again.
His lips part around your name, but you’re already reaching back for the cash envelope, already smoothing your dress down your thighs, already turning toward the main room where the noise waits for you like a job.
You glance back once, because you’re not merciful enough to leave without seeing what you did to him.
“Don’t spend it all in one place, Kaminski.”
He doesn’t move until you’re gone.
The motel room smells like old carpet, damp towels, and the Chinese takeout Stan left half-open on the dresser before disappearing to chase the rest of the money.
Lion gets back alone because Stan’s still out with the promoter, probably drinking on somebody else’s dime, probably telling anyone who will listen that his brother is the future of every dirty fight night in New York.
The room is paid for with cash tucked inside a sock in Stan’s duffel, two beds with thin covers, one buzzing lamp, one television with bad reception, and a bathroom so small Lion has to stand close to the sink to shut the door.
He turns the shower on too hot. Steam fills the little room fast, fogging the mirror until his reflection blurs into bruises, split lip, smeared gloss, and eyes that still look back at him with your mouth in them. He strips out of his shorts with clumsy hands, hissing when the waistband drags against tender skin, and the heavy, aching cock between his thighs springs free with a weight that makes his breath catch all over again.
He had told himself the walk back would settle him. The cold air outside, the stairwell, the ride, the empty motel room, anything.
Nothing helps.
Your hand is still there in his head, rubbing his cock through his shorts in that dirty hallway while the room outside counted money off his blood. Your voice keeps sliding under his skin.
He braces one hand against the shower wall, head bowed beneath the spray, and wraps the other around his thick shaft with a groan he tries to swallow before the motel walls can take it.
The first stroke nearly buckles him. He’s still too worked up from the fight, from you, from being embarrassed and kissed harder for it. Precum leaks steadily from the fat head as he pumps.
Water runs over his shoulders, down his stomach, over the bruises already blooming along his ribs, and his fist moves with none of the patience he tried to have in the hallway.
He thinks about your gloss on his mouth, your fingers stroking him through his shorts, the way you had looked when you realized how hard he was. He thinks about the old photograph, your mouth low on his stomach, the whole room laughing while he stood there with heat flooding his face and your mark drying above his waistband. He thinks about you saying he could pay for the rest, and his hips jerk into his fist so hard his knuckles knock against the tile.
A rough sound slips out of him, lost under the shower.
He tries to slow down, but it doesn’t last. His palm drags over the swollen head, slick with water, precum, and need, and he bites his lip before remembering the split there, pain sparking bright enough to make him groan again. The pain folds into the rest of it too easily. Everything does tonight.
Your teasing. The win. The cash. The shame. The kiss. The way you left him standing there, aching and stupid, as if he was just another thing you could wind up and walk away from.
His forehead presses to the wet tile.
In his head, you don’t walk away.
In his head, your knees touch the dirty hallway floor, your gloss still perfect, your eyes lifted like you know exactly what he’s been hiding in those shorts. In his head, your hand is not enough, your hot, wet mouth is worse, and you’re laughing softly at every broken little sound he makes while you slobber and bob on his cock because Lion Kaminski, who lets men split him open for money, can barely survive being wanted by you.
The thought snaps through him filthy and fast.
His hips snap forward, fist flying, water sluicing over his bruised abdomen and down to where his heavy balls draw up tight. He comes with his teeth clenched and one arm braced hard against the wall, shooting thick ropes of cum over his hand and onto the tile under the hot spray, his breath breaking around a low, guttural groan he cannot fully swallow. For a few seconds, he stays there with water beating down his back, chest heaving, shame and relief and want all tangled together until none of it feels clean.
The shower keeps running long after he should turn it off.
When he finally opens his eyes, the steam has wiped the mirror blank, and your gloss is still faintly smeared at the corner of his mouth.
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Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
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