The gym was quieter than usual. Most of the regulars had left for the day, leaving just Owen and Jorie under the flickering fluorescent lights. The faint hum of a distant radio playing a slow tune echoed softly, creating an atmosphere that felt strangely intimate.
Jorie sat on the edge of the ring, lacing up her sneakers after another grueling practice. Her hair was slightly damp from sweat, and a streak of chalk dust clung to her cheek. Owen leaned against the ropes nearby, watching her with a faint smirk.
"Not bad today," he said, tossing a water bottle her way. "You only tried to knock my head off once."
Jorie caught the bottle and rolled her eyes. "Hey, progress is progress." She took a sip and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "Besides, you're tougher than you look."
"Flattery won't get you out of running drills tomorrow," Owen shot back, his grin widening.
Jorie groaned dramatically, flopping back onto the mat. "You're a tyrant, you know that?"
"I prefer 'motivational genius,'" he replied, sliding down to sit next to her. For a moment, they were both quiet, the only sound the creak of the old gym settling around them.
"You ever think about why you do this?" Jorie asked suddenly, staring up at the ceiling.
"Boxing?" Owen said, glancing at her. "All the time. It's the only thing I've ever been good at."
"That's not true," Jorie said, turning her head to look at him. "You're good at making people laugh. And teaching. Even if you're a little mean about it."
Owen chuckled. "Thanks... I think."
"What about outside the gym?" she asked. "What do you want to do when this is over? After high school, I mean."
Owen hesitated, his expression faltering. "Haven't thought that far ahead. For now, it's just me and the ring."
Jorie studied him for a moment, her gaze softening. "You're more than just a boxer, Owen. I see it when you're helping me. You have this way of pushing people, making them believe they can do more than they think."
Owen shifted uncomfortably under her gaze, his ears turning red. "Well, don't go writing me a poem or anything," he said, trying to deflect.
"Too late," Jorie teased, sitting up and leaning closer to him. "Roses are red, punching bags are too, if you keep dodging my questions, I'll throw one at you."
Owen burst out laughing, shaking his head. "You're unbelievable."
"You love it," she shot back, her tone playful but her eyes lingering on his a little longer than usual.
For a moment, the air between them shifted. Jorie's teasing smile faded, replaced by something softer. Owen felt it too—a pull, magnetic and undeniable.
"Jorie..." he started, his voice quieter now.
She tilted her head, her smile small but genuine. "What?"
He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but his brain stalled. His heart was pounding in his chest, louder than the radio in the background.
"You've got... chalk on your face," he blurted out instead.
Jorie blinked, then burst into laughter. "Seriously? That's the best you've got?"
Owen rubbed the back of his neck, grinning sheepishly. "What can I say? I'm better with my fists than my words."
"Well," Jorie said, leaning in closer, her face just inches from his. "Maybe next time, try leading with your heart instead."
And before Owen could think, her lips brushed his cheek—a light, fleeting kiss that left him completely stunned.
Jorie pulled back, her cheeks as red as his. "Thanks for helping me, Owen," she said softly, grabbing her bag and hopping off the ring. "I'll see you tomorrow."
Owen sat there, frozen, as she walked toward the door. He touched his cheek where her lips had been, his heart still racing.
As the door swung shut behind her, he let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding and muttered to himself, "What just happened?"
Whatever it was, he knew one thing for sure: Jorie Leonhart was going to be the toughest—and most exhilarating—fight of his life.