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"This reads like you’re trying to impress someone, not tell the truth. Stop hiding behind pretty words."
The words of her editor replayed in Caitlyn’s mind as she walked back to the tube. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t heard criticism about her writing before, but with her only chance of getting published resulting in someone saying her words were meaningless, it made her think this whole “move to the city to write your book” thing had been just a big mistake.
"You’ve got style, sure— but where’s the substance? Strip the fluff, get to the core, and write like you actually mean it."
What was that supposed to mean? Caitlyn only ever wrote what she meant and how she meant it…was that still not enough? She pulled her notebook from her bag, flipping past pages of perfect prose, neatly spaced paragraphs, carefully constructed scenes. All of it clean. All of it clever.
None of it, apparently, good enough.
The editor’s voice echoed again—unimpressed: “Stop hiding behind pretty words.”
She stared at her own handwriting like it belonged to a stranger.
Her mother used to say she could’ve gotten anything she wanted as long as she’d stuck to her side, so that’s exactly what she didn’t do. Caitlyn couldn’t come back now and prove her right; she’d have to keep it up, even if her editor dropped her altogether by next month. She shoved the notebook back into her shoulder bag and stared at the houses before her, eyes burning. A quote from her mother’s last call floated to the surface of her mind:
“You had every opportunity, Caitlyn. You didn’t have to make life harder for yourself.”
Her mum always did have a way of reducing Caitlyn’s dreams to polite concerns. And Caitlyn had always been polite enough not to shout back.
But this—this felt worse. The editor hadn’t been cruel. Just honest. That sharp, surgical kind of honesty that leaves you bleeding after.
You’ve got style, sure— but where’s the substance?
What if there wasn’t any? What if she were just someone good at sounding like a writer?
She had walked away from the life her mother built, rejected the safety net, and turned down the offers to come home. And for what? For rejection from strangers who barely looked her in the eye?
“This is the third week you don’t come here with something sellable, Miss Kiramman, get it together”
She tapped her pen against her knee, faster and faster—rewrite the opening, maybe shift the tense? Cut the second chapter entirely? Start a whole new novel? No. No, she couldn’t start over again. She didn’t have the time, and it wasn’t going to give her rent money in time.
Her mind reeled. Rent. Right.
She still needed to find a job— something that paid enough to cover her overpriced, two-room flat near the centre, but didn’t swallow every hour of her day. A job that left room for writing. In other words: the kind of job that didn’t exist.
Every listing she found wanted full-time hours or years of experience or, worse, enthusiasm for selling overpriced coffee to angry people. She had none of the above. Just a notebook full of stories no one wanted to publish yet, and a growing sense that maybe she needed to return home.
London was supposed to crack her open, turn her into someone braver. Someone who didn’t write for approval or hide behind clever sentences. Instead, she was running out of money, and her editor thought she had no substance.
Still, she always found a way to love the city. The London evening was a quiet hum — neon shop signs blinking lazily, black cabs humming past puddles that caught the last sunset like mirrors. One caught her eye from the brighter neon red of the sign: the gym on the corner of the street wasn’t much to look at, all flickering lights and peeling paint, but inside, the sound of fists meeting bags echoed like thunder. It sounded like a giant beating heart. Right on the side of the street.
The sign on the front door read: “We are hiring. Receptionists from 11 pm to 6 am. Night Shifts Only. Open 24H.”
Caitlyn paused. Night shifts meant the whole day to herself and her book. Sure, she wasn’t a gym expert, but she could manage selling a few prescriptions and welcoming people in. Plus, it wasn’t like she didn’t spend her nights awake already. Might as well make money from it.
Before she could overthink it, she pulled open the door with a creak, stepping inside. The gym smelled like sweat and rubber. The dull clink of weights. The rhythmic thud of fists hitting bags. It was different from the hustle of her daily commute—loud, sure, but somehow...rhythmic.
The front desk was empty, save for an old leather chair that squeaked under a big, bulky man behind the counter, his arms crossed and a tag with his name that said “Vander”. Looking like he’d seen it all before, he raised an eyebrow as Caitlyn approached, the question in her gaze obvious.
"I saw the sign. Receptionist?" Caitlyn asked, her voice just a little too sharp with desperation.
From the little name badge, she understood that “Vander” looked her up and down ever so slightly before answering; she didn't exactly look like the boxing gym’s regular, and so Caitlyn’s words lingered until he shrugged and gestured to the sign-in sheet on the counter. “You want the job? Fill this out. We need someone who can handle themselves when the gym’s at its busiest. And can deal with the noise.”
Handle herself and the noise—Caitlyn understood that. She leaned over the counter, filling out her details.
“11 to 6 isn’t exactly a ‘dream job,’” the man continued, watching Caitlyn's hand scribble down her name in her pretty cursive. “But you’ll get free access to the gym while you’re here. You box?”
Caitlyn hesitated, then shook her head. “Not yet,” she forced a small grin on her face, unable to raise her head.
The man let out a laugh, but it wasn’t mean. “Well, you’ll learn. Most people who come in here do. You have an outlet for your anger?”
Caitlyn blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “Uh... writing?” then straightened her voice: “I’m a writer”
The man shrugged again, then took Caitlyn’s form. “Whatever works for you. Come back tomorrow at 11. Bring your ID.” he mumbled, looking over the papers to see if she’d missed any spots. “You can look around while I set your contract up for you”
After shooting a grateful smile Vander’s way, Caitlyn turned around. That was easy. She thought...browsing with her gaze when something in the back met her ear, behind the heavy bags lined up against the far wall, worn from use. The pounding fists still echoed in the background, but now there was a new tone to it. One that scared her as much as it was drawing her in.
That specific sound wasn’t coming from something, but someone, a woman with short pink hair and black overgrown roots. Her knuckles were wrapped in worn tape, her shirt was soaked with sweat, and her body looked like she spent most of her nights in front of that punching bag. The same heavy bag rocked under her punches, and with each strike, Caitlyn imagined the sound of a door unlocking—her thoughts being striked down.
There was something Caitlyn suddenly wanted to understand. She lingered longer than she meant to; the noise that was so engulfing earlier seemed to have disappeared with the sounds from the pink-haired girl. Her presence was empirical— her editor said she needed “grit,” something “real.” Whoever this girl was, she definitely had that.
A punch. Another. Her head turned.
Through the unfocused gaze in her eyes, she saw her. The boxer. Broad shoulders, arms like a sculpture, eyes locked on something far beyond the bag. She slowed her rhythm, giving a sideways smirk — a little arrogant, a little curious— as she yanked her gloves off with her teeth.
“You gonna start punching,” she called through her mouthguard, “or just keep staring like a creep?”
Caitlyn flushed. “I wasn’t— I mean—” She hesitated. Then stepped forward. “I’m a writer,” she said, again, lifting her notebook awkwardly, why did she say that? She needs to stop saying that. “..I mean— I actually applied for the job at the desk, thought I’d try and get some inspiration”
Vi raised an eyebrow, grabbing her water bottle. Caitlyn tentavely took some steps towards her, anything to male her stop shouting her exchanges. “You always stalk your inspiration?” the girl retorted,
“I never said you were inspirational.”
That got a laugh. Short, raspy, fit. Like everything else about her. Vi let the bottle hang from her fingers. “Name’s Vi.” she uttered after removing the rubber mouthpiece that protected her teeth.
“Caitlyn.” she lent Vi her hand, and she took it, her handshake was firm, but somehow still soft.
Vi let go, eyes scanning her blouse that was too tidy, her boots that were too clean with heels too high, but spotting something sharp in her nonetheless. Like the long, dark blue hair. “So what’s the story?”
Caitlyn, surprised, blinked. “What story?”
“The one you’re writing. About me, I assume.”
“I never said— I don’t know yet,” Caitlyn admitted, trying not to fall for the way her words tugged at her chest. “Vi” was objectively charming. But she knew too well that she was fucking with her. “I just saw this place. And there was a… pull.” she ended, truthfully
Vi took a step closer. “Careful with that. You pull too hard, I might not let go.”
Then, a voice cut through the static between them—gravelly and amused. Vander from the other side. “I see you’ve already met. Violet, give her the tour, would ya?”
Both women turned to see the man leaning back in his creaky chair, arms folded across his chest like he already knew exactly how this was going to go. Vi sighed as she finished putting back the last bits of equipment inside her gym bag. “Sure,” she shouted back, her eyes still fixated on the blue-haired girl.
Caitlyn blinked, as if just now realising. “Oh, don’t worry, I’ll come back tomorrow”
Vi looked at her, then back at Vander, then smirked again—wider this time, almost playful. “First thing you need to know about this place,” she slung the gym bag over her shoulder,
“If my dad tells you to do something, you do it” Vander’s chair gave a final creak as he sat up and reached for a clipboard. Vi rolled her eyes and waved Caitlyn to follow her with a flick of her wrist. “He’s the one paying for all this, so he earns it.”
Caitlyn obliged and followed her through the gym, ducking past thick ropes and workout benches, weaving between heavy bags and exhausted fighters collapsing onto mats. The air was thick with sweat and focus, but it didn’t suffocate her—it grounded her.
Vi walked with the kind of casual confidence Caitlyn could only write about. The shirt clung to her back, the faded lettering long gone.
“You box here every night?” Caitlyn asked, breathlessly trying to keep pace.
Vi glanced back. “Every night I’m not working. Which is... most nights. Fights pay more when you win. And I like winning, so I train..a lot.”
Caitlyn nodded. She already knew that—she could feel it. Vi’s presence was charged. Like she carried storms in her bones. Suddenly, they stopped at the threshold of a new corner, it was less crowded: hidden from the gym’s chaos.
“This is the break room,” Vi said, nudging open a heavy door with her hip. Inside was a cracked microwave, a fridge with someone’s name scribbled on every container, and a couch that looked like it had survived a war. “You probably won’t use it much unless you’re dying or on the verge of tears. Sometimes both.”
The room looked pretty wrecked, with a sparring mat and ropes in one of the corners, and that same rubber scent from before attached to every object. Caitlyn raised her eyebrows, despite herself: “Looks…awful” she admitted.
Vi grinned. “You’ll fit in fine.”
They kept walking, Vi pointing things out with a mix of sarcasm and pride — like this place had half-raised her, and she still wasn’t sure if she forgave it or owed it everything.
Eventually, they stopped at the ring in the far back corner, where the hum of the gym softened, canceling out almost completely. A spot where the light fell in strips across the canvas.
Vi rested her arms on the ropes and looked back at Caitlyn, her voice quieter now. “I know place isn’t pretty. But it’s loyal to what you do. You don’t bullshit here.”
Caitlyn stepped closer. She realised Vi’s breath hinted of harsh liquor, whisky maybe? She wasn’t sure if she wanted to know. “Are you always this cocky after beating up a sandbag?” she teased, the room so quiet you could hear their breaths hit each other.
Vi tilted her head, eyes catching hers, soft now, less teasing. She opened her mouth to answer, but then quickly closed it again. “Only when the cute girl with the British accent’s watching.”
Yeah, she’s definitely drunk.
Caitlyn shut her mouth. Their eyes remained locked. It’s not a question anymore, not really. Just that same air between them, waiting to be broken.
Vi didn’t say anything else—just held her gaze for a second longer, like she was daring Caitlyn to flinch.
Caitlyn didn’t. She actually realized something. That Vi didn't have that London, british cadence everyone had. Like she had.
“Actually—” Caitlyn replied vaguely, her voice more unsteady than she wanted it to be. “—Where are you from?”
Vi smirked, but she stepped back from the ring, hands slipping into her jeans’ back pockets. “New York,” Caitlyn tilts her head, “...But I was born in ‘Jersey” she finished.
Caitlyn raised an eyebrow, a slow smile creeping in. “That explains the accent...and the attitude.”
“I’ll pretend that’s a compliment,” the other retorted. Cait’s smile grew bigger, and they stood there for another beat, the thrum of the gym fading into something quieter, like the noise had learned to keep its distance. Now Caitlyn found herself watching the way Vi’s shoulders relaxed just slightly when she wasn’t being watched, how the sarcasm gave way to something gentler beneath the bravado. Stop staring.
“Why London?” Caitlyn asked the question before she could talk herself out of it. Before she could look at her for any second too much.
Vi looked at her for a moment, unreadable. Then she shrugged, turned around, and started leading her to another room on their right. “My mom was from here,” she replied plainly, while walking with her back turned to her.
Caitlyn pretended not to hear the “was” or to notice how her tone got quieter. She was good at walking on seashells around people, still curiosity and empathy tugged at her heart.
“I moved back here last year” Vi concluded, pushing open a side door without looking back, revealing a much smaller space than the rest of the gym — a narrow storage space filled with old gloves, spare wraps, and punching pads stacked high. It smelled like chalk. She didn’t go in, just leaned against the doorframe.
Caitlyn’s throat tightened, but she kept her tone even. “That sounds good”
Vi gave her a sidelong glance, the kind that could knock a person sideways. “Yeah. It did.”
Her gaze lingered for a second longer than it needed to — sharp and unreadable, like she was measuring the weight of Caitlyn’s words. Then she looked away, flexing one hand open and closed like she was trying to shake something off.
“I tried staying in New York for a while after,” she said, voice thinner now, less sure. “Didn’t stick. Got too loud. Too crowded, but not in a good way. Just... noise.”
Caitlyn shifted, her fingers brushing the doorframe beside Vi’s without quite touching it. “So you came back here for the silence?”
Vi gave a low laugh, the kind that curled at the edges like smoke. “No. I came back ‘cause I owed my mum more than running away from where she died.”
That landed between them like something heavy. Caitlyn looked down at her boots, unsure if she was allowed to stand this close to that kind of truth. But then the little room seemed to have pushed them even closer. Their breaths itching against one another.
Caitlyn’s words caught in her chest, her throat dry with questions she hadn’t earned the right to ask. “I’m sorry to heart that” she tentatively answered, now meeting her eyes.
Vi didn’t shift expressions, just turned around into the storage unit even more. “It’s not something to be sorry about” she called out from inside, Caitlyn didn’t dare to pry, when the other came back she’d buried her gym bag under a shelf.
“Things happen” she concluded, closing the storage door behind her with a loud thud, clearly communicating that she was over that topic, her eyes looked unfocused, but not by lust like they’d been before: just sadness, a deep quiet kind of sadness.
Caitlyn stood frozen for a second, the echo of the door closing still ringing in her ears. Things happen. The words clung to her like the dampness in the air, like they were supposed to mean move on, but instead they meant don’t ask.
“Right,” Caitlyn murmured, her voice too small for the space. She wanted to say something clever, to lighten the air again—but everything that came to mind felt like another “pretty word.” And hadn’t she promised herself she’d stop hiding behind those?
Vi was already halfway across the room, starting to get into a grey worn out hoodie. Her hair loose, framing the sharp edges of her jaw, movements sharp and distracted. Caitlyn couldn’t look away — not from the movement, not from the quiet exhaustion that suddenly felt vulnerable, human. The silence between them wasn’t awkward, exactly — just dense. Full. Like both of them were balancing on something fragile.
And then a sudden pang of shame hit Caitlyn as she realised she didn’t want her to put the hoodie on. It was hiding her body, her shoulders, her waist–
Finally, Vi spoke again, without turning around: “What?” she asked, voice rough, low.
Something in the air had shifted. The silence wasn’t empty anymore; it hummed, soft and charged, like a wire stretched too tight. Vi slowed as she pulled the hood over her head, eyes flicking towards Caitlyn just once, as if she could feel the weight of her stare.
Caitlyn shook her head, heat rising to her cheeks. “Nothing. You just…” She hesitated, searching for words that didn’t sound like flattery. “You look different when you’re not trying to be impossible.”
That earned her a smirk—small, crooked, and entirely unfair. “You think I’m impossible?”
The words landed somewhere low in Caitlyn’s chest. Her heart tripped over itself. “That’s… not what I said.”
“Well I’m not,” Vi said simply, stepping closer.
Caitlyn’s breath caught. She should’ve stepped back, said something clever, anything. But she didn’t. Vi was close enough now that Caitlyn could see the freckles dusting her collarbone, the faint scar over her upper lip, the pulse in her throat.
Then finally, her mouth opens and words start spilling out: “Am I even allowed here during shifts? I thought the desk job meant–I mean I know what a receptionist is but this place is so-“
“Do they ever tell you to shut up?” Vi asked quietly, her tone somewhere between teasing and tender.
The other’s words died in her throat, off-guard she mumbled: “..No?”
“Maybe try it,” Vi murmured. “Just for a second.”
Caitlyn blinked, the noise in her mind dimming. Not sure if she was turned on or offended, she didn’t think about how this would sound on paper, or whether it meant something. She just looked at her—at the sharp lines softened by the half-light, at the eyes that seemed to ask for honesty without words.
And then Vi kisses her.
It's tentatively soft at first, but Cailtyn sinks into her like its a reflex, insides melting as her fingers slide up her arms, over the shoulders that carry too much, and Vi’s mouth opens against hers—deeper now, hungrier. It's not just kissing. It feels like exhaling.
Vi walks them back, pressing Caitlyn against the ropes, lifting her just slightly as they move together like they’ve done this before in some other life. Caitlyn lets out the smallest sound—surprised by her strength, but not resisting it. Her fingers find the hem of Vi’s hoodie, curling there like an anchor.
Vi’s hand is at the small of her back, splayed and sure. Her other knuckles ghost the line of Caitlyn’s jaw, like she’s trying to memorize it mid-kiss. Her lips are soft but determined, “You smell good,” she murmurs between kisses, her breath grazing the corner of Caitlyn’s mouth.
“And you,” Caitlyn breathes, blinking through the haze, “smell like a locker room.”
At the tease the other smiles into her, their mouths brushing in half a laugh, half a sigh. Vi chuckled — the sound low, breathy, as her forehead pressed against Caitlyn’s. “Yeah,” she muttered, “sorry".
Then she pulled away just an inch—their lips parting reluctantly, breaths mingling in the space between them. Caitlyn’s hands rest on Vi’s chest now, feeling the wild rhythm of her heart under sweat-slick skin, her own pulse keeping time with it like they’d synced somewhere in the middle of it all.
Neither of them speaks. The air between them is thick with the weight of unspoken things— not awkward, just fragile. Like if one of them moved too fast, it might all unravel.
Caitlyn’s fingers flex slightly, feeling the heat radiating through Vi’s shirt. Her cheeks are flushed, lips parted. Then something in Caitlyn’s gaze switches, and she quickly flinches her hands away from Vi, “That’s not what we’re doing,” She whispers, breath still slow.
“..Okay.” Vi murmurs, voice like honey, but still doesn’t step back. Neither does Caitlyn. An alarm goes off in her head. God , she thought, She probably takes a different girl home every night.
“I’m just…” Caitlyn starts backing off the ropes, not going to be a story you half-remember a week from now, she thinks.
“...It’s late,” she mumbles instead, not breaking eye contact, realizing she probably missed her tube stop. Caitlyn cursed under her breath. This was exactly the kind of distraction she didn’t need. She was supposed to be chasing the truth. Substance. Writing about grit and desperation, not falling for the first beautiful hurricane that smiled at her in the dark.
Vi nodded, fiddling with her back pockets, she licked her lips, not meeting her eyes. “You’re still on for the shift tomorrow, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Caitlyn said, a little too fast. “I’ll be here.”
Vi gave a small wave without turning around, but looked at her before disappearing through the locker room door. “I can walk you home” the pink-haired girl proposed, before she could think. “You’re right, it’s late” Vi concluded.
“Okay.” the other answered, again, way too eager.
“Okay.” Vi mirrored her, with her eyes tracing her face, lingering at the curve of her mouth, then her jaw, then back up. Like she’s checking if Caitlyn regrets it — if she wants to be anywhere else.
She doesn’t.
And Vi can tell. Because the only thing she hears Cait say, barely above a whisper, is once again: “Okay.”