THE BOXING GYM is bigger than I'd anticipated, with accents of red, black, and white around the building. Roman parks the car in the lot with ease. I watch the muscles in his arms flex as he shifts the gear before turning away. "Well," I mumble softly. "You drive a car better than you drive a motorcycle."

Roman laughs as he reaches behind his ear to grab the white cigarette placed behind it. "You say that subjectively," Roman retorts, climbing out of the car and lighting his cigarette.

I scrunch my nose at the stench and climb out of my own seat, making a face. "Why did you bring me here? I'm not athletic. One time, I tried out for the lacrosse team in middle school and the coach sent a worried letter home to Oba after practice."

Roman blows out a waft of smoke. "What, why?"

I shrug my shoulders. "He was worried about my 'athletic challenges.' Oh, and scoliosis."

Roman laughs loudly. "Boxing isn't like lacrosse, trust me. Much less running. It's all about power, agility, strength—"

"All things that I don't necessarily possess," I mumble. "I'm short, I'm skinny, and I live on a diet of chocolate and Wheat Thins. This isn't going to work."

Roman raises an eyebrow at me. "Are you always so pessimistic?"

"Are you always so pushy?" I retort.

Roman mumbles something under his breath in what I'm guessing is Italian. I'm slightly dazed by the fact that he speaks another language and by the sudden Italian accent that he had. Which, I'm trying to convince myself is not sexy. Not even a little bit. "What did you just say?" I hiss, crossing my arms. Roman only leans against my car.

"I didn't say anything," he responds. The cheeky grin on his face is enough to make me angry.

I throw up my hands dramatically before dropping them back to my sides. "You just did! Under your breath! In Italian!"

Roman takes one last drag of his cigarette before tossing it onto the ground and stomping it out. "Braylen, if I say something under my breath in Italian, that must mean that whatever I said wasn't for you to hear."

Anger courses through my veins. "You're insufferable."

"Swallow a thesaurus lately?" Roman asks. "We're going in. No arguing, got it?"

I lift up my middle finger and stomp my way to the door, pulling it open and not even checking to see if Roman is behind me. My eyes shift at the sudden dimness of the room compared to the bright sun outside and it takes a few moments for me to get adjusted to the gym.

        It's mostly empty save for a sweaty guy wearing blue boxing gloves and hammering away at a black punching bag. The gym itself is mostly black and white with pops of red along the walls next to inspirational quotes that seem a little cheesy to me.

        Hustle for that muscle.

        To be number one, you have to train like you're number two!

        Let the gains begin.

        I'm getting ready to point out the ridiculous quotes to Roman when he calls out to the man in blue. "Charlie! Looking good, brother!"

        The man, Charlie, wipes away his sweat and stops punching the bag. "Gotta work hard if I have any hopes of ever beating you," he says with a wink to Roman. He takes off his boxing gloves before approaching us, all smiles. "Who's this?"

        "This is Braylen. Braylen, this is Charlie. We've been going to this gym together for a couple of years now," Roman says. "You'd think he'd have beat me in a fight by now."

        Charlie rolls his eyes. "All right, all right, we get it. You don't have to rub it in." Charlie's brown eyes flicker to me. "You fight, dude?"

        My eyes widen. "Oh, no. Roman brought me here because apparently, I have a lot of...aggression."

        Charlie laughs loudly. "Well, of course, he did. Psychoanalyst Roman De Carlo in the building," he says. Even I crack a smile.

        "Okay, we get it," Roman groans but he's laughing too.

        "Have fun then, you two," Charlie calls as he makes his way to the door. "And Roman, get your damn phone fixed. Since you can never seem to call anyone."

        Roman sticks up his middle finger at Charlie the same way I did to him outside. I snort. "He has a point," I mumble, fighting back my smile.

        Roman raises an eyebrow at me. "Hey, I texted you yesterday!"

        "Yeah, after ignoring me for, like, a week," I retort. "For someone who swears they're not ancient, you sure do act like it. You text like a grandma."

        He tilts his head at me. "Anyways," he says pointedly. "Let's get you wrapped up. Come on."

        He leads me over to the corner of the now empty gym and digs around in the boxes for the hand wrap. I take a seat as he kneels and slowly wraps my hands up in the white material, watching as his brows furrow as he works. The feeling of his cool hands around my warm ones distracts me, and by the time he looks back up at me, it's too late for me to move my eyes away. "Too tight?" he asks, his eyes flickering up to my face and down to my lips.

        "Mm-mm," I hum back. Roman nods and squeezes my hands before standing up. I follow suit, still slightly dazed. "So when do I start hitting things?"

       Roman looks at me with a laugh on his face. "After we stretch. And I explain some things to you."

        I laugh. "It's just throwing punches, Roman. What else is there to explain?"

        Apparently, there was a lot more to explain. Roman goes through the basics as we stretch together. He schools me on the different types of punches and how important it is to protect my hand—otherwise, I could break it. He makes me reiterate all the rules back to him until he's satisfied and only then does he slip black boxing gloves over my hands. "You're ready," he announces.

        I roll my eyes. "Yeah. Four hours later."

        Roman laughs. "Trust me, you'll thank me. It isn't good to rush into things."

        I look up at him and smile softly. "Right. Um, okay, so where should I start?"

        "Do you remember what a jab is?" Roman asks. I nod once. "Okay, let's see it. Don't hit the bag just yet."

        I try my best to copy the movement that he'd shown me in our overkill boxing lessons, taking my left arm and punching the air in front of me and bringing my other arm to my chin. "How was that?" I ask, turning to Roman.

        "There was no power behind it. If you'd hit the bag, it wouldn't have moved," Roman responds, a hand on his chin as he observes me. "It was a mediocre punch."

         I frown. "Well, don't hold back, Rome. Tell me how you really feel."

        He looks at me. "You're not putting enough into this. Where's the anger I saw last night? Where's that guy?"

        I breathe deeply. "I don't like being angry."

        "But you are," he responds.

        "No, I'm not," I retorted, glaring at him.

        "Admit it. You have a temper."

        My cheeks turn red. "I don't! Stop psychoanalyzing me."

        Roman smirks and that expression alone has me fuming. "Hit the bag, Braylen."

        "What?" I hiss. I wasn't ready to stop arguing just yet.

        Roman nods towards me. "Hit the bag."

        I pause for just a moment before pulling my arm back and landing a jab at the punching bag. Heat spreads through my entire body as my glove connects with the punching bag and a grunt leaves my mouth. The bag sways back and forth for a few moments before coming to a slow stop. "I did it," I whisper, surprisedly.

        "How'd it feel?" Roman asks.

        "Good," I admit. "Really good."

        Roman smiles. "All right, then. Again."

        I land another punch and then another and then another until the only sound in the room is my breathing and the sound of my glove connecting with the punching bag. When I feel my body giving out, I bend over onto my knees to catch my breath. "You're tired," Roman points out, disdain evident in his voice.

        I wipe sweat from my forehead with my arm and look at myself through the mirror in front of us. I was sweaty and clearly exhausted. "I'm not athletic."

        "You're using your entire body for every punch," Roman remarks. "You're tiring yourself out and it's showing in your punches. They're getting sloppier and further apart."

        I heave a sigh as I stand up straight. "What do you suggest? The only way I can get power in my punches is by using my entire body!"

        "Not true," Roman says, coming close up behind me. His hands make their way to my waist and I inhale sharply, his long fingers burying themselves into my stomach. "You have to keep tension here. Every twist you do is like a reset; it brings power to your punches and it won't tire you out."

        His warm breath against my neck has my head spinning. I stare back at us through the mirror, dismayed to find myself red and practically gaping at our reflection. Roman is watching me from the mirror as well, his eyes taking in every inch of my body as I stand frozen in front of him. His fingers don't move. "Do you understand?"

        "Yes," I murmur softly. My voice sounds as breathless as I feel. I clear my throat. "Got it."

        Roman releases my waist and I finally let out the breath I'd been holding. I go back to throwing jabs at the punching bag and Roman voices his assent at my technique, but all I can think about now is the feeling of his hands on me.

Once we're done with the lesson, Roman slides the gloves off my hands easily and unwraps my fists. My heart hammers against my chest as I watch him do so and my brain is having the hardest time figuring out why. Was Roman attractive? Obviously. Was he the nicest person I knew? Most likely. But I didn't like Roman. I knew I didn't. At least, not that way.

Maybe he was right. Maybe it was sexual tension.

I flex my fingers a few times as Roman returns all the equipment. "So...you fight?" I ask.

Roman turns to look at me. "Yeah. From time to time. It's fun and when I win they pay well."

I gnaw on my bottom lip. "But isn't it weird to you? Getting paid to beat people up?"

Roman chuckles. "Boxing isn't about beating people up, Braylen. It's about technique and skill and control. Besides, you nearly beat up a guy last night for free. And let's not forget the broken nose."

"I'm not usually violent, I swear. I'm...well, maybe not a lover, but not a fighter either!" I explain. "That guy yesterday deserved it, trust me."

Roman nods once. "I'm sure. He seemed like a prick. Any guy that wears a peach polo like that..."

        I snort. "Can't forget about the board shorts."

        "Eugh. Don't remind me," Roman groans, and a laugh leaves my mouth. "You hungry?"

        I place a hand on my stomach and sigh. "I think you know the answer to that, Roman De Carlo."

        We're back in the car in minutes—Roman lets me drive—and I'm more than pleased to find that the temporary awkwardness on my part had gone away. Roman and I finally make it to the small little diner up the street, one nice enough to have good food but not so bougie that it would be weird for us to show up in gym clothes.

        The restaurant is pretty packed, but we're lucky enough to find a small table in the corner. We slide into the seats and I pick up my menu almost immediately. I was starving. I realized that I hadn't eaten much yesterday or at all this morning. I felt like I could eat a horse. "What're you getting?"

         Roman glances up at me with pursed lips. "Oh, uh, nothing much. Not all that hungry."

        "Fair enough," I respond. "Me, on the other hand..."

        A waitress appears in a dainty little blue dress and button shoes. "Hey, y'all! What can I get for you?"

        "Can I get the pancake breakfast with a side of eggs, bacon, and sausage? Extra bacon? Oh, also a poached egg on the side. And are those French toast sticks good? Never mind if they're good, I'll take five," I rattle off, setting down my menu. The waitress and Roman are looking at me kind of stunned. I clear my throat. "Rome, what are you getting?"

        Red stains his cheeks and he glances over the menu once more. "Um, just a blueberry muffin. And a coffee. Thanks."

        I make a face. "That's all you want?"

        Roman nods and the waitress smiles. "Alrighty, then. Coming right up!"

        She takes our menus and bounces away, her ponytail swinging behind her. I turn back to Roman, fiddling with the salt and pepper shakers. "So how'd you get into fighting, anyway?"

Roman runs a hand over his head, his palm grazing the short hair of his buzzcut. "Uh...I dunno. I wasn't all that strong when I was a kid and I wanted to change that. Wanted to defend myself. So I started fighting at thirteen."

"That's pretty young," I remark.

Roman shrugs and glances down at the table. "Yeah, I know. But it was good for me. The discipline of it, the pain. It helped me with control."

"Control?" I repeat.

Roman cocks his head to the side, his lips turning up just a bit. "I used to have a mild temper."

I smirk. "Mild, eh?"

"Okay, okay. I was way worse than you," he admits. "Anyways, fighting has been my outlet for years now. So when my therapist encouraged that I do it in a more...legal manner, I started going to the gym. And here I am."

        I chuckle softly. "Stuck in a diner with a basket case."

        "I don't think you're a basket case," Roman responds quickly, his eyebrows etched as he looks at me. "You shouldn't think that either."

        It takes all of me not to laugh. Then again, he didn't know I imagined my dead boyfriend a good portion of the time. "When are you going to stop trying to see the good in me?" I ask.

        Roman purses his lips. "When I believe that there's no more good to find."

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hi, roman is hot, bye.