They hit New York three days after Paris — quick layover, different energy. The city felt louder, faster, closer to home but still distant enough to breathe. Raul had an address scribbled on his phone, some boutique in the East Village where his friend worked.
"You're gonna like her," Raul said as they walked, his leather jacket back on, afro bouncing with each step. "She's loud, but like, in a good way. And her shop's got this vibe — totally her."
The Fighter followed, hands shoved in his hoodie pocket, cap pulled low. He looked exhausted still, that bone-deep kind that sleep couldn't fully touch. The Paris pause had helped, sure, but New York's noise was already pressing back in — sirens, voices, the constant hum of motion.
The boutique sat between a bodega and a vintage record store, its window plastered with pastel stickers and hand-drawn signs advertising "Custom Accessories" and "Good Vibes Only." A bell chimed when Raul pushed the door open.
Inside, the walls exploded with color — racks of glittery hair clips, chunky jewelry displays, shelves stacked with DIY kits and kawaii stationery. J-pop played softly from a speaker somewhere, and the air smelled faintly of strawberry lip gloss.
Naomi appeared from behind a beaded curtain, platinum-blonde hair tied up with pastel ribbons, chunky star-shaped earrings swinging as she moved. She wore layers of bracelets that clinked with every gesture, and her smile was immediate, bright, genuine.
She bounced over, earrings jangling, stopping just short of invading his space but clearly delighted. The Fighter stood there, silent, shoulders hunched, looking like he wanted to melt into the floor.
Naomi tilted her head, studying him with exaggerated concern.
The Fighter blinked. Said nothing. Just stood there, exhausted and vaguely confused.
Naomi's smile softened, less teasing now, more genuine. She stepped back, giving him space, hands still animated as she spoke.
Raul nudged The Fighter's arm gently.
Naomi grabbed something from a nearby display — a glittery hair clip shaped like a star, pastel pink and absurdly cheerful. She held it up with both hands like an offering.
The Fighter looked at the clip. Then at Naomi. Then back at the clip.
He took it.
Raul blinked, genuinely surprised.
The Fighter turned it over in his hand, examining the glitter, the way it caught the light.
Naomi's entire face lit up.
The Fighter touched the clip lightly, feeling the ridges of the star. It was soft. Harmless. Kind of pretty, actually. He caught his reflection in a small mirror on the wall — tired eyes, hoodie, cap, and now a pastel pink star glittering in his hair.
He didn't hate it.
Raul laughed, leaning against a shelf.
Naomi was already pulling out more clips — lavender butterflies, mint green hearts, tiny holographic moons.
The Fighter let her talk, watching as she arranged accessories on the counter like a treasure spread. The shop's brightness didn't feel overwhelming anymore — it felt soft. Gentle. Like something that didn't demand anything from him.
He picked up a lavender butterfly clip, turning it over in his palm.
Naomi's eyes went wide.
Raul grinned, watching The Fighter carefully select clips and pins, his movements slow but deliberate. There was something almost peaceful about it — the way he studied each piece, the way his shoulders relaxed just slightly.
Naomi packaged everything up in a pastel bag with tissue paper and stickers, still chattering about new stock coming in and how he should come back anytime. The Fighter took the bag, holding it carefully, and when they left the shop, the bell chiming behind them, he kept the pink star clip in his hair.
Raul didn't say anything. Just walked beside him, grinning.
The Fighter's phone buzzed in his pocket — probably Isabelle again, probably something urgent — but he didn't reach for it.
Not yet.
For now, he walked through the East Village with a glittery pink star in his hair and a bag full of pastel accessories, and it felt... okay. Not good. Not fixed. But okay.
And for now, that was enough.