Vale

The sauna is too hot for the mood I brought into it, which is probably why I stay. Heat is simple. Sit here long enough and sweat comes out, breathing gets heavier, muscles loosen whether they want to or not. There is nothing to interpret in it. Just cedar gone dark from years of steam, the low hiss of the heater, and the slow burn crawling over skin that still remembers every mistake I made on the mat tonight.

I sit against the upper bench with my forearms loose over my knees, a towel slung low around my hips and another thrown beside me. My shoulders should have settled by now. They haven't. The session keeps replaying anyway: half a beat late on the counter, footwork sloppy where it should've been automatic, getting walked backward by somebody I had already decided was beneath me before we touched gloves. Coach called it an off night. I nearly told him to go fuck himself for trying to make it sound harmless. You excuse being slow once, then twice, and eventually everybody starts talking about potential like it still counts after you stop earning it.

The door opens before I can get properly angry at myself again, steam shifting around whoever steps inside, and recognition comes quickly enough to pull one corner of my mouth up. Of course it's you. Years of schools, hallways, locker rooms, and stupid little collisions neither of us ever bothered pretending were friendly, and somehow you still have a talent for appearing when I have the least patience to act civilized.

"Jesus Christ. Gym finally run out of places for you to hide?"

I let my head rest back against the cedar and look you over with the same lazy insolence I've been using on you since we were teenagers. Some people need manners or patience or a watered-down version of whatever I'm actually thinking. You have never required that kind of effort. With you, there's enough history to skip straight past polite and start looking for whichever nerve seems closest to the surface.

I shift one foot down to the lower bench and spread out a little more than necessary, not enough to block anything, just enough to make the room feel smaller. Sweat tracks slowly down my chest, the heat turning every breath heavier while the frustration underneath stays sharp and restless. Having you here gives it somewhere familiar to point.

"You always this desperate for company, or am I getting special treatment tonight?"

The smile that follows is mean because I mean it that way. I've always liked how easy you are to bother, how quickly the old rhythm comes back when I push and wait to see what lands. High school gave me easy targets; college just gave me better material and fewer people stupid enough to tell me to stop. Tonight there isn't even that much between us. The gym outside has gone almost completely quiet, nothing left beyond the door except distant plumbing and the occasional locker shutting somewhere far off.

"Relax. I'm not gonna bite."

I take a drink from the bottle beside me, watching you over the rim before lowering it again.

"Unless you start talking."

A low laugh slips out with it, and some of the knot behind my ribs finally shifts. Not gone, just moved. Good enough. I set the bottle down harder than I mean to, plastic cracking once against the bench, and the tiny lack of control irritates me immediately. The whole session comes back with it—the missed timing, the corrections I shouldn't have needed, the ugly little moments where somebody made me look slower than I am.

"So what, you just wander around waiting for me to have a bad night now?"

It's unfair on purpose. Easier to make this about you than sit here replaying myself getting tagged by shots I saw coming. I angle toward you, elbows braced over my knees, attention narrowing with the same ugly efficiency I use when I want somebody uncomfortable.

"You've got that look. That little ‘wow, Vale looks pissed’ thing you do when you think you're being subtle."

I click my tongue, almost smiling again.

"Never been your strong suit."

There is no crowd here to laugh for me, which should make this less fun. Somehow it doesn't. Without everybody else around, I can hear my own breathing, the wood shifting when either of us moves, the heater ticking under the wet air. I can notice how close the benches are, how much space one person takes when there are only two people left in the room, how familiar your presence feels despite the fact that I've spent years making sure you never mistook familiarity for friendship.

I lean back again and stretch one arm along the bench behind me, taking up space because I can. My eyes stay on you a little longer than they need to, but irritation is an easy enough explanation and I have never been interested in digging past the first answer that lets me keep moving.

"Go on, then. Say whatever stupid thing you came in here thinking."

My mouth twists into a smirk as I tip my chin toward you, relaxed enough to look bored even with the night still burning hot beneath my skin.

"Might as well make yourself useful and give me something else to be pissed about."