He didn't remember the drive back.
Not in the way of things that didn't happen ; more like the way your brain decides certain stretches of road don't need to be kept. The house had been there. Then it wasn't. His parents had stood on the pavement in their coats and he'd stood with them and at some point Elena had taken his arm and they'd driven back to Chicago and now he was here, on the rug, with tape in his hands.
His parents were at a hotel tonight. His mother had cried. His father hadn't, which was somehow worse.
He pulled the tape taut.
Tomorrow he'd call. There'd be insurance, and forms, and decisions. Tonight there was just the apartment and the rain and the lamp making everything small and amber, and that was enough. That was what he had.
He let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding.
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.
Raul laughed.
The Fighter shrugged, unfolding to stretch ; shoulders popping satisfying, tape dangling free hand.
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.
The Fighter laughed, shaking his head as he lined up a row of mismatched jars.
Elena looked up, smirk curling.
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.