Rain ticked against the living room windows like impatient fingers, turning the open‑plan space into a cozy cave cluttered with mismatched cushions and half‑unpacked grocery bags.
The Fighter sat cross‑legged on the rug, wrapping one hand with athletic tape in lazy loops ; habit more than need, the familiar pull keeping ring adrenaline at bay. His glitter robe draped a chair nearby, rhinestones dulled by lamplight, a shed skin from the night’s triumph.
Raul sprawled across the couch like he’d invented lounging, one leg dangling over the armrest. Elena wrestled the fridge door shut against three bulging heads of lettuce.
Raul smirked, eyes on screen. "I did. Didn’t hit the supermarket. Picked it up from that little farm stand down the road — thought it’d be fresher, maybe a bit more interesting than the usual?"
Raul laughed. "Yeah, you’re real creative , just don’t try to put lettuce in the cereal again."
The Fighter shrugged, unfolding to stretch — shoulders popping satisfying, tape dangling free hand. "Bet. But I’m not buying kombucha again. Seriously, what is that stuff?"
Raul grinned. "Probiotic magic, man. Just because you can break bricks doesn’t mean you’re immune to gut health."
"Don’t pull a muscle," Raul deadpanned. "We can’t afford more hospital bills. This is America lmao."
They drifted into an easy quiet after that ; the kind you only earned by surviving each other’s bad days. The Fighter left his half‑wrapped hand as it was, tape still dangling, and padded to his room. Tomorrow would be another run, another training session, another day carrying a name the world loved to chew on. Tonight, he shut the door on all of that.
Sunlight spilled through the same windows the next morning, washing away the rain‑soaked gloom and making dust motes float like slow confetti. The apartment felt softer in daylight. The Fighter stood by the counter, unpacking groceries with the same precision he used on his combinations , cans lined up by size, boxes squared, produce handled like it might bruise if he breathed too hard.
At the table, Raul was perched over the remains of last night’s pizza box, doodling whimsical characters along the grease stains. Elena wrestled with the toaster, which seemed personally offended by bread.
Raul grinned without looking up. "Corporate paper just doesn’t feel the same. Pizza boxes have… attitude."
"You’re impossible," Elena muttered, tucking a head of lettuce into the fridge like it might try to escape. "At least your chaos is compostable."
The Fighter laughed, shaking his head as he lined up a row of mismatched jars. "Hey, the actual artist out there—" he nodded toward Elena "—I heard you turned down that gallery gig last month. Seriously, don’t you want to put your stuff somewhere?"
"THAT’S THE SPIRIITTTTT !!!!" Raul howled, and the two of them dissolved into laughter, shoulders shaking, pizza box sliding dangerously toward the edge of the table.
The Fighter looked up from the grocery bags, watching them with a crooked smile. His hands, which the world only cared about when they were wrapped and raised, were busy with something small and ordinary — milk into the fridge, bread into the cupboard, three lives balanced in one cramped kitchen.
They laughed again. For a moment, there was no ring, no headlines, no fire chewing at the edges of his life. Just rain‑washed windows, sunlight, and the stupid comfort of arguing about lettuce.