Micah resets, his brow furrowing in concentration. His next attempt flows better, still clumsy but with flashes of coordination that weren’t there before.
“There you go,” Saint encourages. “Keep your weight centered.”
Watching Saint coach Micah through basic defensive moves, I realize Saint has begun to relax and has stopped checking the door for signs of danger. He’s laughing and joking with Micah and Jade. And he hasn’t mentioned returning to his old apartment even once.
This is who Saint might have been without Winters, juvie, and years of pushing down his trauma. A man who finds joy in movement, who canlaugh at mistakes instead of treating them as fatal failures.
Micah manages to block two of Jade’s strikes in succession, and his whoop of triumph brings a smile to my lips. Saint catches my eye across the room, and he winks before turning back to correct Micah’s elbow position.
Killing the man who abused him didn’t erase the scars, but it ended the constant vigilance born of knowing he could be found again, allowing Saint to accept help and channel his trauma without turning it inward.
Jade throws a surprise kick that Micah somehow manages to sidestep.
“Not bad,” Jade praises. “For a beginner.”
“I’m a natural,” Micah declares, striking a pose that would get him flattened in any real confrontation.
Saint rolls his eyes. “A natural disaster, maybe. Let’s work on your stance again.”
As they reset, I notice how Saint positions himself not with his back to the wall, but in the center of the mat, back to the door, moving through the space with trust that he’s safe here.
It gives me hope that Saint is starting to trust that he has a place here, a family he can rely on.
The thought brings to mind the envelope I reduced to ash the other night without ever breaking the seal. Sitting here, with Saint laughing with Micah and arguing footwork with Jade, the doubt I once carried has nowhere left to stand.
Family isn’t something to be confirmed by a lab. This right here is what matters, and it has nothing to do with blood.
The session winds down as Micah collapses onto the mat, chest heaving with exertion. Saint stretches his arms above his head, muscles shifting beneath his sweat-soaked T-shirt.
The physical effort hasn’t even touched him. His breathing remains steady, controlled in a way that speaks of years of conditioning. Jade tosses water bottles to each of them before grabbing a towel for himself to wipe away his sweat.
“Same time Thursday?” Saint asks, rolling his neck to release the tension.
Micah groans from his position on the floor. “If I can walk by Thursday.”
Saint nudges Micah’s foot with his own. “You did well today.”
Jade snorts, gulping water. “At this rate, you’ll be ready to fight a toddler by Christmas.”
“Fuck you,” Micah replies without heat, throwing an arm over his face to block the light.
I stand from the bench, ignoring the twinge in my ribs. “Micah’s learning fast. He blocked that last combination.”
“Pure luck,” Jade says, but the corner of his mouth twitches upward.
Saint grabs a fresh towel from the nearby rack and mops up his sweat before pulling his damp shirt over his head in one fluid motion. The fabric peels away to reveal skin mapped with old scars, some from his time in juvie, others from street fights, and the thin lines he carved himself during darker moments.
The old scars remain, a roadmap of pain etched into his body. But nothing new has been added to the collection.
Saint catches me staring and pauses, towel loose in his hand. Vulnerability flashes across his face before he tosses the towel around his neck and grabs a clean shirt from his gym bag.
Pride surges through me that he’s stopped leaving the room to change and has started wearing short sleeves around the family.
He arches a brow. “Something on your mind, Gabe?”
Knowing I’d embarrass him if I told him I wasproud, I shake my head. “Just thinking we should grab lunch after this.”
“Sounds good.” He pulls on the fresh shirt, concealing the evidence of both past pain and present healing.
