The apartment smelled like cigarette smoke and instant coffee — Raul's mom's place, small and warm in the Créteil suburbs. Dawn hadn't broken yet, just that grey-blue pre-light bleeding through thin curtains. The Fighter sat on the cramped balcony, hoodie zipped halfway, long hair loose around his shoulders for the first time in weeks. No cap. No cameras. Just cold air and distant traffic hum.
Raul stepped out with two mugs, steam curling into the chill. He'd ditched the leather jacket inside, just a worn Clash t-shirt and ripped jeans, afro still perfect despite the hour. He handed over a mug and leaned against the railing, lighting a cigarette.
The Fighter almost smiled. Almost. He sipped the coffee — too strong, too bitter, perfect. American diners felt like a lifetime ago, even though it'd only been days. The flight. The cab ride through unfamiliar streets. Raul's mom hugging him like he was family before he'd even said hello.
The Fighter's jaw tightened. He wanted to argue, to say he was fine, that he could handle it. But the exhaustion was bone-deep, the kind that no amount of sleep could fix. The kind that came from being watched, documented, dissected. From Elena's beating. From Delaney's emails. From the endless cycle of fight, win, repeat.
The Fighter stared out at the sleeping suburb — rows of identical buildings, streetlights buzzing, a cat slinking between parked cars. It felt impossibly far from Chicago. From the gym. From everything that had been crushing him flat.
Nothing. The word hung in the air like something foreign. The Fighter couldn't remember the last time he'd done nothing. Even rest days were structured, controlled, productive. But nothing? Just... existing?
The Fighter nodded slowly. The tension in his shoulders — the constant coil that never quite released — loosened just a fraction. He took another sip of coffee and let the silence settle between them, comfortable and easy.
Somewhere across the ocean, Elena was hanging paintings. Somewhere in that same city, Delaney was probably awake too, planning her next move. But here, on this cramped balcony in a country that didn't care about his name, the Fighter let himself breathe.
By mid-morning, Raul's mom had fed them twice — toast with jam, then eggs and sausage, then more coffee, all delivered with the kind of no-nonsense affection that didn't ask questions. The Fighter ate slowly, savoring each bite, not thinking about macros or meal prep or anything beyond the taste.
Raul sprawled on the couch, flipping through vinyl records stacked haphazardly by the TV. "We could hit the record shop later. Or not. My mom's making stew tonight, so we're not going far."
The Fighter sat cross-legged on the floor, back against the wall, eyes half-closed. No agenda. No checklist. Just the ambient sound of traffic outside and Raul humming something off-key.
The Fighter huffed a quiet laugh — small, but real. Raul dropped the needle, and scratchy guitar filled the room, some punk track the Fighter didn't recognize but didn't need to. It just was. Like everything else here. Simple. Present.
His phone buzzed again. Elena, probably. Or his manager. Or someone asking where he was, what he was doing, when he'd be back. He didn't reach for it.
For the first time in months, the world could wait.
Late afternoon hit, and Raul's mom called from the kitchen in rapid-fire French. Raul groaned from the couch, stretching. "Baguette run. Come on."
The Fighter pulled his hoodie back on, cap tugged low. They walked through the quiet streets, past corner cafés and shuttered shops, the air cool and carrying the smell of rain that hadn't fallen yet. The boulangerie sat on a corner, windows fogged, warmth spilling out when Raul pushed the door open.
Outside, the Fighter took one, holding it like a bat. He stared at it for a moment — long, golden, still warm. Then, without thinking, he tilted his head and bit directly into the end. Crust crunched. Crumbs scattered.
Raul stopped mid-stride, staring. "Dude. What the fuck are you doing?"
They walked back in silence, Raul shaking his head, the Fighter hiding a small grin behind the cap's brim.
The door swung open, and Raul's mom was already in the hallway, hands on her hips. Her eyes landed on the baguettes immediately — one pristine, one with a jagged bite taken out of the end.
She snatched them both, inspecting them like evidence at a crime scene. Then she turned to Raul, unleashing a torrent of French that needed no translation.
The Fighter stood frozen in the doorway, cap still on, trying not to exist. Raul shot him a look — see what you did? — before turning back to his mom with an apologetic grin.
His mom's glare shifted to the Fighter, who went very still. Then, impossibly, her expression softened. She sighed, muttering something under her breath, and waved them both inside.
Raul exhaled, clapping the Fighter on the shoulder as they shuffled toward the kitchen. "You're lucky she likes you," he muttered.
The Fighter almost laughed. Almost. But the warmth of the apartment, the smell of stew, Raul's exasperated smile — it all felt impossibly light. Impossibly normal.
For the first time in months, the world could wait.