"And the fights? The underground fights?"
"Came later," I say. "After I got back. Needed somewhere to put it."
I don't elaborate on what *it* is. She doesn't ask. But something in her expression changes, softens slightly, like she's understanding something she hadn't before.
"Is that why you moved here?" she asks. "To Blackwater Falls?"
"Cities were too loud," I say, which is the simplest version of the truth. "Needed somewhere quieter."
"And you opened the gym."
"Yeah."
She's quiet for a moment, and I realize we've stopped moving. We're just standing here on the mat, both of us sweaty now from the repetitions, both of us breathing harder than we should be, and I should tell her to get back into position, should keepteaching, should maintain the professional distance that keeps this from becoming whatever it's threatening to become.
Instead, I lower myself to the floor.
I sit with my back against the wall, knees bent, arms resting on my thighs. The same position I've sat in a thousand times in a thousand different places, the position that lets me see the whole room, the exits, anything that might be coming.
She looks at me for a moment, surprised, and then she sits too.
Not next to me. She chooses a spot about four feet away, far enough to maintain space but close enough that we can still talk without raising our voices. She pulls her knees up to her chest, wraps her arms around them, and looks at me.
"Can I ask you something?" she says.
"You just did. Several times."
A small smile touches her lips. "Can I ask you something else?"
"Depends on the question."
"Does it help?" she asks. "The fighting. Does it actually help?"
No one has ever asked me this before.
People assume. They see the fights, they see me win, they see the way I move in that ring and they assume it's about dominance or money or some kind of adrenaline addiction. They don't ask if it helps.
"Yes," I say.
"With what?"
I look at her for a long moment. Trying to decide how much truth to give her. How much of the worst parts of myself to show someone who's sitting here trusting me to teach her how to be safe.
"The noise," I say finally. "In my head. When I'm fighting, it goes quiet."
She nods like this makes perfect sense to her. "I get that."
"You do?"
"Numbers do that for me," she says. "Accounting. When I'm working, everything else goes away. It's just the numbers. They make sense in a way people don't."
I hadn't expected that. Hadn't expected her to understand, or to offer her own version of the same thing.
"You're an accountant," I say.
"Yes."
"In Blackwater Falls."
