The key turned in the lock with a familiar click.
The Fighter pushed open the apartment door, bag slung over his shoulder, exhaustion sitting heavy in his bones. Detroit felt like weeks ago. Paris felt like a dream. Everything between—gas stations and banana cake and Naomi's shop and Raul's steady presence—felt like it belonged to someone else.
Silence.
Then, from the living room:
He found her curled up on the couch, sketchbook balanced on her knees, charcoal smudged across her fingers. The curtains were drawn—not fully, just enough to filter the afternoon light into something softer. Less invasive.
She looked up when he entered. Her eyes scanned him quickly—inventory check, making sure all the pieces were still there.
She set the sketchbook aside and stood, crossing the room in three steps to wrap her arms around him. Not gentle. Tight. Possessive. Like she was making sure he was real.
The Fighter hugged her back, resting his chin on top of her head. She smelled like paint and coffee and home.
Elena pulled back, studying his face. Her eyes caught on the pink star clip still in his hair.
Elena's mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but close.
They stood there for a moment, just existing in the same space again. The apartment felt smaller with both of them in it, but in a good way. Like the walls had been waiting.
The Fighter dropped his bag by the couch and sank into the cushions with a dramatic sigh.
Elena returned to her spot, pulling her sketchbook back onto her lap but not opening it.
The Fighter recognized that tone. The one that meant she was managing but barely, and she'd rather talk about anything else.
Elena's expression softened.
They fell into comfortable silence. The Fighter watched Elena's hands move absently over the sketchbook cover, fingers tracing invisible patterns. She looked tired. More tired than when he'd left.
Elena's fingers stilled.
She stopped herself.
Elena closed the sketchbook again, setting it aside with more force than necessary.
The Fighter tilted his head, studying her.
Elena looked at him—really looked—and something in her expression cracked.
Elena's hands clenched into fists.
The Fighter leaned forward.
Elena almost smiled.
Elena shook her head, but the tension in her shoulders eased slightly. The Fighter reached over and took one of her hands, uncurling her fist gently. Her knuckles were still scarred from the incident, faint white lines crossing the skin.
Elena looked at their joined hands.
They sat like that for a while. The apartment around them felt both safe and fragile—a space that could be invaded at any moment, but for now held them together.
Elena's phone buzzed on the coffee table. She glanced at it, then ignored it.
It buzzed again.
Elena picked up the phone anyway. Unlocked the screen. Her face went still.
Elena turned the phone toward him.
An Instagram DM from an account he didn't recognize. Verified. Professional headshot. A journalist.
The Fighter's stomach dropped. His playful tone vanished.
The Fighter took the phone, staring at the message. The profile name was innocuous. The message polite. But something about it felt wrong. Invasive.
The Fighter thought about Detroit. About the gym. About the version of himself he'd left behind and the one he'd become. About the cameras and the crowds and the constant feeling of being watched.
Elena looked at him sharply.
The Fighter nodded, but the guilt sat heavy anyway. He touched the pink star clip in his hair absently.
Elena's expression softened slightly.
They fell back into silence. Outside, the city moved on—traffic, voices, life continuing. Inside, they sat together on a couch that had seen too many difficult conversations, in an apartment that felt less safe than it used to.
Elena picked up her sketchbook again. Started drawing. Angry, quick strokes that looked like release.
The Fighter watched her work, the pink star clip still in his hair, exhaustion giving way to something heavier.
He was home.
But home didn't feel as safe as it used to.
And he didn't know how to fix that.
So he just sat there, close enough to reach if she needed him, and let the silence hold them both.
For now, it was enough.