The highway stretched empty and dark, headlights carving a tunnel through the night. Raul drove with one hand on the wheel, the other tapping against his thigh to whatever was playing low on the radio—some punk track he'd probably burned onto a CD years ago.
The Fighter sat in the back seat, forehead pressed against the window, watching streetlights blur past like ghosts.
He'd been quiet since they left Detroit. Not the comfortable quiet they usually shared, but something heavier. Something that sat in the car like a third passenger.
Raul glanced in the rearview mirror.
The Fighter's reflection stared back—eyes unfocused, jaw tight, the pink star clip in his hair catching brief flashes of passing light. His shoulders were hunched forward slightly, like he was trying to make himself smaller.
Silence.
Raul drummed his fingers on the wheel, thinking. Then he saw it—a gas station up ahead, its fluorescent lights cutting through the darkness like a beacon.
He pulled off the highway without warning, tires crunching over gravel as they rolled into the station's parking lot.
He was out of the car before The Fighter could protest, leather jacket swinging as he jogged toward the convenience store entrance. The automatic doors slid open with a cheerful chime.
The Fighter watched through the window as Raul disappeared inside, afro bouncing with each step.
He sat alone in the car, the sudden silence pressing in around him. No engine noise. No music. Just the hum of the gas station's lights and the distant sound of traffic on the highway.
Detroit had felt like looking into a mirror and seeing someone he used to be. Someone smaller. Younger. Still figuring out who he was allowed to become.
And now he was here, in a gas station parking lot in the middle of nowhere, wearing a pink star clip in his hair and trying not to think about the gym that was probably going to be demolished soon. About the gloves he'd left behind. About the coach who'd given him a word he hadn't known existed.
Through the window, he could see Raul inside the store, talking to the cashier, gesturing animatedly about something. The cashier laughed and pointed toward the back.
The door chimed again.
Raul jogged back to the car, holding something wrapped in plastic. He slid into the driver's seat, grinning triumphantly.
He handed the package to The Fighter.
It was a slice of banana cake. Store-bought, individually wrapped, slightly crushed from being in Raul's enthusiastic grip. But it was there.
The Fighter held the package carefully, like it might break.
The Fighter's throat tightened. He looked down at the cake, at Raul's reflection in the rearview mirror, at the gas station lights still humming outside.
The Fighter opened the wrapper. The cake was dense, moist, smelling faintly of artificial banana flavoring and sugar. He took a bite.
It was too sweet. The texture was slightly off. It tasted nothing like homemade.
But it was perfect.
Raul watched him in the mirror, smile softening.
He pulled back onto the highway, music starting up again—low, familiar, grounding.
The Fighter sat in the back seat, eating gas station banana cake, watching the road disappear behind them.
The sadness was still there. Detroit was still there. The gym, the memories, the version of himself he'd left behind—all still there.
But Raul had stopped at a gas station in the middle of the night to buy him cake.
And somehow, that made it a little easier.
He finished the last bite and crumpled the wrapper in his hand.
Then he paused, thinking.
Raul's grin turned sheepish.
The Fighter stared at him. Then, despite everything—despite Detroit, despite the sadness, despite the weight pressing on his chest—he laughed.
It was small. Quiet. But real.
The Fighter didn't argue.
They drove in comfortable silence after that, the kind that felt like safety, the pink star clip still glinting in The Fighter's hair every time they passed under a streetlight.