I'm still shaking.
My hands won't stop trembling as I dip the mop back into the bucket, the water already turning pink from all the blood I've cleaned up tonight. The chemical smell of the disinfectant burns my nose, but I barely notice. My heart's racing so hard I can feel it in my throat.
I press the mop against the concrete, scrubbing at a stubborn stain that's probably been here for weeks. Months, maybe. The physical work helps. Gives me something to focus on besides the lingering feeling of that man's fingers digging into my arm. Besides the way Danny Cross appeared out of nowhere like some kind of avenging angel.
Except angels don't look like that.
I risk a glance toward his corner.
He's still there. Standing completely still, arms crossed over his massive chest, head slightly bowed. Decompressing, I've heard people call it. After every fight, he goes to that same spot and stays there for at least twenty minutes. Everyone knows not to approach him. Everyone knows to give Bruiser his space.
But he'd approached me.
I force my eyes back to the floor. Keep cleaning. This is just a job. He was just being decent. That's all. Men like Danny Cross don't notice girls like me. Why would they? I'm nobody. A single mom who cleans up blood and sweat for minimum wage, who goes home smelling like disinfectant and violence, who's too tired to remember the last time she felt pretty.
And he's... him.
God, how could anyone not notice him?
I'd noticed him my very first night here. Impossible not to. He's enormous. Not just tall but wide, built like he was carved out of solid granite. Short dark hair that makes his eyes even more intense. That nose that's been broken so many times it's almost abstract. Tattoos covering every visible inch of skin below his jaw.
He looks dangerous because he is dangerous.
I've seen what he does in that pit. Seen the way he fights like something primal and unstoppable. Men twice his skill level crumble under his fists. He doesn't dance around or show off. He just... destroys. Methodically. Efficiently. Like violence is a language he speaks fluently and everyone else is still learning the alphabet.
It should terrify me.
It does terrify me.
But there's something else there too. Something I noticed in those brief moments when he stood between me and that creep. The way he'd asked if I was okay. The way he'd stepped back immediately when he saw I was scared. Given me space. Like he was aware of exactly how intimidating he was and was trying to make himself smaller.
As if a man like that could ever be small.
I move to the next section of floor, dragging the bucket with me. My arms ache. Everything aches. I've been on my feet for five hours straight, and I still have another hour of cleaning before I can clock out and go home to Daisy.
My chest hurts with the usual cocktail of love and guilt. She's asleep right now, curled up in Mrs. Patricia's guest room with her favorite stuffed rabbit. She'll wake up tomorrow morning and ask me if I had fun at work, because at three years old shedoesn't understand that Mommy's "work" involves mopping up blood in an underground fighting ring.
I tell her I clean a gym. Which is technically true. Just... not the whole truth. One day she'll be old enough to ask harder questions, and I'll have to figure out what to tell her. But not yet. Not for a while.
I'm scrubbing at another stain when I feel it, that prickling awareness that comes from being watched.
I straighten slowly, risking another glance toward the corner.
Danny's looking right at me.
Our eyes meet for maybe two seconds before I jerk my gaze away, my face flooding with heat. My heart's doing that stupid thing again, beating too fast, too hard.
I focus on the mop with an intensity that's probably excessive for literal floor cleaning. Dip, wring, scrub. Dip, wring, scrub. Don't look at him again. Don't be weird about this.
The other two cleaners, Marcus and Pete, are working on the bleachers, wiping down seats and picking up trash. They're talking quietly to each other, laughing about something. Normal. Easy.
I envy them that. The ease.
I've never been easy. Not even before Daisy, before her father left, before I became a single mom scrambling to survive. I've always been the quiet one. The one who fades into the background. The one boys looked past in high school to get to my prettier, thinner, more confident friends.
I'd made peace with that a long time ago.
Mostly.
