Boom.
Right hook.
Boom.
Left.
The bag quivers under my fists, and for a moment I feel myself breathing again.
But the second I close my eyes, I see him.
Him.
Between my legs.
Too irresistible.
Too Cohen.
My breath fractures again.
Dominic notices, but says nothing.
That’s why we’re friends: he never asks for explanations, and I never have to pretend I’m fine.
After what feels like an endless round, my arms stop responding the way they should.
They’re weak, heavy.
He tilts his head—barely—but it’s the universal sign forthat’s enough.
“One more round,” I say, though my breath betrays me.
He lets go of the bag.
Doesn’t say a word.
I peel off the gloves and drop them to the floor, then look at him.
He runs the towel along the back of his neck, then hands me his water bottle.
I take it and drink deeply.
The cold water burns down my throat, but at least it drags me back to reality.
“Thanks,” I mumble.
“Mmh.”
I sit on the mat beside him.
He bends forward to unfasten the wraps still on his hands.
“He’s an idiot.” The words slip out.
“We all are.”
“He’s worse.”
