Work Text:
One of your New Year’s resolutions was to exercise more.
It had sounded reasonable when you wrote it down on your resolutions list, the words neat and optimistic in your planner. You’d even underlined it with a glitter pen, as if that would somehow make the commitment stick.
Historically, it hadn’t.
Every January came with a burst of motivation and a gym membership you swore you’d use this time. Every February was followed by sore muscles and dwindling enthusiasm. By March, the gym card lived forgotten at the bottom of your bag while your bank account continued to suffer from your unlearning optimism.
This year, you promised yourself you’d be smarter.
Classes, instead of a gym membership, you decided, would force you to show up.
You sat cross-legged on your couch, laptop balanced on your knees, scrolling through options near your apartment. Cross-fit felt like public humiliation you would be paying for. Swimming required you to be cold and wet too many times to your liking.
Then you paused.
Boxing.
Hm.
There was something appealing about it — it was direct, physical, purposeful. You liked the idea of knowing how to hit someone. Not that you planned to, obviously. You just wanted to feel like you could, especially living in Gotham. You were tired of having the upper-body strength of a wet noodle. It would also be therapeutic after work, you thought.
The gym had beginner classes, solid reviews, a female instructor listed, and—best of all—a free trial session.
It was perfect.
You signed up for a Tuesday evening class before you could overthink it.
New year.
New you.
Maybe.
The gym was harder to find than you expected.
The building itself looked almost residential, its exterior painted matte black, blending into the busy street. You walked past it once, then doubled back, squinting until you spotted a small sign near the door.
You arrived early—too early—thanks to a bus that showed up exactly when you needed it to. The gym interior surprised you. It was minimalist. Clean. Concrete floors, exposed brick, and equipment neatly organized. There were no corny “YOU CAN DO IT” signs or random posters of tigers or wolves like you for some reason expected. Somehow, all of the simplicity of the studio made it seem more legit, more intimidating. You liked it.
The reception desk sat just inside the entrance. Behind it, a teenage boy with olive skin slouched over his phone, dark hair falling into his eyes.
You hesitated, then cleared your throat.
“Sorry—um. Is this the boxing studio?”
He didn’t look up. Just tilted his head slightly, indicating the glowing neon sign behind him.
BOXING STUDIO.
“…Right,” you said, heat creeping up your neck. “Okay. And the beginner class?”
This time, he lifted his head slowly and squinted at you — you weren’t sure how he managed it, but the look he gave you made you wish he’d just called you stupid outright instead. He tipped his chin toward a heavy metal door to your left. A taped-up paper sign read: BEGINNERS CLASS.
Oh yeah, a tiny sign. How obvious. You wondered how you’d missed it.
“Right…” Still, your face heated up.
As you turned toward it, you heard him go, “I was starting to think you didn’t know how to read.”
You spun around to glare at him, but he was already back to scrolling on his phone, lips twitching like this was deeply entertaining.
Great sign. Stellar customer service here.
You stared at him for half a second, then walked into the studio before your pride could convince you to say something regrettable.
The studio was larger than you expected.
Heavy bags lined the walls, training dummies stood at attention, and gloves and wraps were neatly stacked on racks. One other person was already there—a man tightening the straps on his gloves.
He looked about your age. Mid-twenties, maybe. Dark short hair and a silver streak cutting through it.
He was… intimidatingly built, to say the least.
Broad shoulders. Thick arms. He was wearing a sleeveless black top, and you could see a variety of scars on his arms. On his very built arms. Wait, did you say that already?
You immediately wondered if you’d walked into the wrong class. This guy didn’t really look like a beginner to you, but maybe being buff didn't immediately equal to boxing knowledge. How were you to know?
He didn’t look at you. Didn’t acknowledge you at all, actually. You set your duffel bag down on a bench and sat, pulling out your water bottle just to give your hands something to do.
The clock ticked loudly.
6:45.
Fifteen minutes till the 7 PM class. So, fifteen minutes of upcoming awkward silence.
But unfortunately for both of you, you were an unfunny yapper.
“So,” you blurted, “what do you think she looks like?”
He paused, fingers stilling on the wrap. Slowly, he lifted his head and looked at you.
“Who?”
“The instructor,” you clarified quickly, already committed to the bit. “Like—do you think she’s super buff? Or, I don’t know, covered in cool boxing scars? Maybe she was an ex-military spy," you were really in it now, "or maybe an ex-assassin nun with one eye—now that would be hot.”
The corner of his mouth twitched.
“I think that you watch too many movies.” He added dryly, “And I also don’t think boxing scars are usually that cinematic.”
“Damn. There goes my mental image.”
He chuckled under his breath. You felt a little proud that you’d cracked the silent big guy on your first day. You relaxed a little. At least he didn’t seem rude and didn’t mind your cringy attempt at breaking the silence.
More people began to trickle in, filling the room with quiet conversation and movement. The man straightened, rolling his shoulders like he was settling into his body.
“Alright,” he said, voice calm but carrying effortlessly across the room. “Let’s get started.”
Your stomach dropped.
He turned fully now, facing the class—and you.
“Welcome, I’m Jason Todd. I’ll be your instructor,” he continued, eyes flicking briefly back to you, something unmistakably amused there. “Instructor Dinah teaches the experienced class.”
Oh fuck.
You had never sweated like this in your life.
Your arms burned. Your shoulders screamed. Your legs shook with every stance correction Jason barked across the room. Although he was pretty firm and precise in his class, he wasn't cruel. He would keep an eye out on everyone, making sure that no one was pushing too far and was generous with his encouragements when you were doing good.
When he stopped beside you, you tensed.
“Relax your shoulders,” he said quietly, “You’re locking up.”
You nodded, trying—and failing—not to think about how close he was.
“Again,” he instructed. “Jab. Cross.”
You did exactly what he said. Just... really badly.
He sighed patiently. He stepped closer, placing a hand over yours, adjusting your wrist.
“Power comes from the rotation,” he murmured, guiding your hips with the barest pressure. “Not your arms.”
“Oh,” you sighed, as the movement suddenly clicked.
Jason glanced at you, something unreadable flickering across his expression, and withdrew his hand immediately as it had started to burn him.
He then coughed and muttered, “You’ve got it,” as he turned his head to check on another student.
By the end of class, you were completly exhausted, shaking, and buzzing with adrenaline.
Jason clapped his hands. “Good work, everyone.”
As people filtered out, you lingered, rewrapping your hands slowly.
“I know I’m not the hot, buff lady instructor of your dreams,” Jason said, smiling as he approached you, “but I’d still love to see you again at our upcoming classes next week.”
It felt like a simple decision. This had been the best damn workout of your life. He clearly was a motivating visual. This New Year's resolution might turn out to be easier than you thought it would be.
So you smiled.
“Yeah. I’d like to sign up for the program.”
Tuesday and Thursday nights quickly became routine.
You never missed a class. You were always early —fifteen, sometimes twenty minutes early— claiming it was because you liked getting your money’s worth.
Not because you enjoyed sitting on the bench with your water bottle and whatever book you were currently reading, occasionally glancing up to watch the hot instructor adjust the equipment.
Of course not, haha.
You hadn’t realized you were being watched in return until one evening, when Jason walked in, gym bag slung over his shoulder, and nodded toward the book in your lap.
“Mary Oliver today? Thank God. That Bukowski phase was concerning. You actually picked up a good poet this time.”
You blinked. “You noticed that?”
He snorted, already moving to set up the weights. “Hard not to. Bukowski? Really?”
You laughed, shutting the book around your finger to hold your place. “It was a yard sale mistake. I’m still recovering. To hell with Bukowski, honestly.”
“Good,” he said. “There’s hope for you yet.”
After that, the early arrivals became less about pretending to read and more about talking. He’d ready the equipment while you sat nearby, and the conversation slipped easily from contemporary poetry to dog-eared classics, from books you loved to ones you’d hate-finished out of stubbornness.
Truly, you hadn’t expected him to be an avid reader. Not with his intimidating build and the permanent scowl on his face.
But he was, and you had made a new friend!
Today was a Thursday night like any other.
The only thing that made tonight different—made it worse, somehow—was the fact that no one else except you decided to show up to class.
Jason didn’t comment on it at first. He checked his watch, frowned slightly, then looked at you.
“Guess it’s just you and me today,” he said.
You laughed, already a little breathless. “Lucky me.” And if he noticed the excitement and nervousness in your voice, he didn’t say anything.
The session was brutal. With no one else to split his attention, Jason corrected everything—your stance, your guard, the angle of your wrist.
“Again.”
He circled you slowly while you worked. The rubber soles of his shoes whispered against the floor. When you faltered, he stepped in without warning, fingers catching your wrist and correcting the angle.
“Don’t drop your shoulder.”
Heat gathered low in your stomach, inconvenient and stubborn. You focused on the rhythm — jab, cross, hook — but you could feel him at your back, the shape of him in your peripheral vision. The faint scent of soap and sweat. The air shifting every time he moved.
You shouldn't have noticed the new distance between him and you, but you did. You hated how obvious it felt for you—how aware you were of him, of his presence, of the way sweat darkened the collar of his shirt. Holy shit, you really were starting to feel like a touch-starved pervert.
By the end of the class, you were exhausted. And painfully aware that you’d spent half the class eating shit and the other half trying not to drool over your instructor.
Afterward, you decided to shower at the gym instead of going home, which was something you usually avoided in normal circumstances. But tonight was different because you had planned a date after class.
You met him on a dating app, and he was cute-looking and nice enough. And after constantly going to these classes and coming and coming home alone —not that these classes weren’t fun, and spending time with this hot instructor was fun—you couldn’t help but feel lonely. Your growing crush on Jason made you feel like you really needed to go out there and find available people. When was the last time you got laid anyway?
You peeled off your workout clothes and let the hot water rinse away the ache in your muscles, trying very hard not to think about Jason’s hands guiding you earlier. About his voice near your ear.
Get a grip, you told yourself.
You got dressed in the locker room—simple black going out top and jeans, did your familiar makeup routine in the bathroom mirror. You barely recognized yourself for a second. It felt good. Going out. Being seen. Not daydreaming about a man who very clearly wasn’t an option.
With your absent-mindedness, you remembered that you left your water bottle in the practice room just as you were about to leave.
With a quiet groan, you put down your duffel bag, and you jogged back toward the studio, grabbed your bottle from the bench—
—and the door slammed shut behind you.
“No—!” Jason said at the same time you spun around to the loud noise.
The sound echoed through the room, sharp and metallic.
“What?” you asked, heart skipping.
He stared at the door as it had betrayed him, then dragged a hand down his face.
“Awesome,” he muttered. “We’re trapped.”
You blinked. “Trapped how?”
“The door auto-locks,” he said tiredly. “That’s why we usually prop it open.”
“What kind of door does that?”
“The kind the last idiot owner installed,” he snapped, then sighed. “And the kind the new, broke owner hasn’t had time to replace yet.”
“Oh.” You swallowed. “So, uhh... what do we do?”
Jason went quiet as he looked at the ground. Anxiety started boiling up in your throat as you could sense his hopelessness.
“What about that teenage receptionist?”
“You mean, Damian?” Jason shook his head quietly. “That brat leaves before the evening classes finish.”
“Brat? Sheesh. I didn’t think he was the nicest," you said teasingly, "but you really call your employees names, big business owner guy?”
Although you said it in a joking manner, Jason still tensed, “No- I mean, he is my brother.” He explained awkwardly.
”So- it's okay. I can call him that.”
“Oh, okay.” That was awkward. There was more silence as you both stared into the ground. “So what do we do then?”
“My phone’s in the office,” he said at last, glancing around like it might magically appear. “Please tell me you have yours.”
You met his eyes.
The answer must’ve been obvious because he let out a short, humorless laugh. "Perfect,” he muttered as he sat down on the bench like a deflated balloon. “Just perfect.”
He had to be stuck with his most gorgeous student—whom he was having a hard time ignoring his crush for— in his stupid little studio on a Thursday night. Perfect. Perfect. Jason couldn't think of a brilliant scenario to torture himself.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of you hitting one of the dummies.
The dull thud echoed through the room.
Jason startled. “Whoa—what did the dummy do to you?”
You hit it again, then kicked it lightly, frustration bleeding out of you.
“I’m just—ugh,” you said. “I’m going to miss my date.”
That got his attention. “Date?” he repeated, a beat too slow.
“Yeah,” you said, stepping back, arms crossing. “I was supposed to meet him in an hour.”
Jason swallowed. “That explains… all of this.” He said, gesturing his finger up and down. She did look really good. Something sharp and unwelcome curled low in his chest.
She’s your student, he reminded himself. Don’t be stupid, Jason. We don’t make moves on students, Jason. You don't wanna be that creepy guy, Jason.
Silence settled again. Jason moved toward one of the benches and sat, elbows braced on his knees, staring at the floor.
You hovered for a second before sitting on the opposite bench, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him.
“So,” you said, forcing lightness, “this is going to be the worst excuse I’ve ever had for ghosting someone.”
He snorted despite himself.
He gestured, texting with his thumbs as he said, “Sorry, I got trapped in a boxing gym with my instructor. Raincheck?”
“Yeah. Real believable. Happens to all of us.”
“Just be honest. I don’t think he would miss the chance to go on another date with you.”
You raised an eyebrow. “You think?”
His cheeks pinked. “I mean—not like that.”
You raised an eyebrow, a slow smile tugging at your mouth. “Relax. I'm just joking.”
“Good,” he said. “Because I wouldn’t date someone who hates Melville.”
“I didn’t say I haaaate him. I just said I’ll never finish Moby-Dick.”
He laughed, and the room felt smaller. Warmer.
“Why the date?” he asked after a moment. “I mean—” He stopped himself, dragged a hand through his hair. “ I probably shouldn't ask - You don’t have to answer that.”
“No, it’s okay.” You signed, you didn’t think that your night would end up turning into an impromptu therapy session.
After a breath, you added, “I don't know, I think because I get tired of wanting things to happen to me.”
Jason went very still.
“That so?” he asked.
“Yeah.” You swallowed. “Boxing helps. Makes me feel stronger. Like I’m not just… floating through my life waiting for something to happen. I mean, I want to have someone to go home to at one point, and I wanna be loved and love, and I always believed that if I want something to happen in my life, I need to take steps towards it to make it happen, you know, even if it means going on shitty dates with shitty people you met on a dating app. Numbers game and all, but at least I can feel like I am doing something,”
He glanced at you now, really looked at you. There was something unrecognizable in his expression, something unguarded before he could stop it.
He opened his mouth to say something and closed it. Instead, he smiled and said, “So you think he is shitty.”
“I didn’t say that exactly.” You laughed, he got you this time. “I guess it doesn’t matter now. Won’t be meeting him.” You waved your hand dismissively.
You met his eyes. There was another stretch of silence—longer this time. The kind that felt deliberate, like both of you were carefully not stepping over something obvious.
Jason stood abruptly. “Okay,” he said, clapping his hands once, sharp. “Let’s—uh. Let’s not sit around spiraling.”
You raised an eyebrow. “You gonna start another class? It’s just me, coach.”
He hesitated, then stepped toward you, stopping just short.
“Humor me,” he said, gesturing you to stand up, “And plus you are my worst student, you could really use the extra practice.”
You made an offended sound.
Jason laughed, “Show me your stance again.”
You did. Muscle memory kicked in—feet planted, shoulders squared.
“Relax your guard,” he murmured, stepping closer. “You’re still holding tension here.”
His hands hovered.
“You can,” you said softly. “I don’t mind.”
His breath hitched.
Jason’s hands settled on you carefully, like you might shatter if he moved too fast. He adjusted your shoulders, then your hips, guiding you into place with deliberate restraint.
“There,” he said. “That’s it.”
Neither of you moved away.
The space between you felt charged. You could feel his breath at your temple, smell soap and sweat, and something unmistakably him.
“Sorry, I got too close.” He said, his cheeks crimson.
“It’s okay.” You said, leaning your frame into his hands. Okay, maybe you had officially lost your mind from your dry spell.
“We shouldn’t— I shouldn't” He stopped, exhaled, leaning away yet still keeping his hands glued to you.
You turned your head just enough to look at him.
Everything in you was screaming; JUST KISS ME YOU DUFFUS!
So you leaned your face closer. He didn’t stop you.
Jason laughed softly, without humor. “I feel like you are testing me.”
“I can stop if you—.”
“No.” He pleaded.
For a moment, nothing happened as he just started at your eyes.
Then Jason closed the distance.
The kiss was desperate—like giving in to a fight he’d been losing for weeks. His hand came up to your jaw, grounding you as his mouth pressed to yours.
When he pulled back, it was only by inches.
“Wait,” he murmured.
You didn’t move. You didn’t want to make him uncomfortable in case he changed his mind. You just stayed close enough to look at him to sense what was wrong.
Jason dragged a hand down his face, eyes shut for a beat, like he was recalibrating. When he opened them again, there was something raw there—frustration, restraint, want.
“This is exactly what I was trying not to let happen,” he said quietly.
“What do you mean?” you asked quietly, pulling back from his grip. “I’m sorry if I misread—”
“No,” Jason said immediately. His voice roughened as his gaze dropped to your mouth—stopped there, like it betrayed him every time. Then he looked away, jaw locking. “Don’t do that.”
He dragged in a breath. “I think about you more than I should,” he admitted. “Every Tuesday. Every Thursday. It borders on torture, honestly. I tell myself it’s nothing. That it’ll pass.” His hand flexed at his side. “And then you walk in through that door, and then I'm hit with the realization that it won't.”
Silence pressed in.
“I don’t do this,” he went on, quieter now. “I never wanted to flirt with a student before. I don’t cross lines like that easily. I don’t want whatever this is to turn into something we might regret.”
Your chest tightened. The words landed wrong—too heavy, too final.
“So do you?” you asked, voice wavering despite yourself. “Regret it?”
The moment the question left your mouth, doubt flooded in. Too far. You pushed too hard. You could already feel yourself bracing, rewinding every look, every joke, wondering how badly you’d misread—
“Fuck no.”
The words came fast, rough, like he couldn’t stand the space your fear had created. Jason crossed the distance in a single step, his hand finding your jaw, steady and sure, tilting your face up before you could think again.
And then he kissed you.
It wasn’t careful this time. It was decisive—a refusal to let you doubt him for even a second longer. It was deep and certain, his hand finding your waist and staying there, firm and grounding.
When he pulled back, it was slow. His forehead hovered near yours, breath uneven.
“I’m so happy I never got around to replacing that door,” he said.
You smiled, breathless. “I think you owe me a new date.”
His mouth curved into a smirk. “Oh, we can easily make that happen.” He said as he pulled you back in by the waist.