Round One Cohen Becker vs. My Sanity
Sloane
Boom.
One hit.
Boom.
Another.
The punching bag swings hard, snapping back with enough force to nearly shove me off balance. I brace it with both hands, take a deep breath, and… hit it again.
“I’m guessing your day was shit,” a calm voice says from behind the bag.
He steadies it with both hands, chest still damp with sweat from his own training session.
Dominic Voss.
Workout gear, dark hair dripping, towel over his shoulder, and his usual neutral expression—the kind you’d have watching a building burn down with the same level of concern you give to water boiling.
“Hold the bag, Voss,” I hiss, landing another punch.
Dominic obeys. Obviously.
With the same lack of enthusiasm he had when I practically dragged him out of the ring thirty minutes ago after his sparring session.
He didn’t say a word.
Just wiped off his sweat, took his place behind the bag… and stared at the ceiling.
And now he’s here.
Absolute stillness. Arms extended. Expression unreadable.
While I try to sweat the rage out of my system.
Perfect.
He’s the ideal friend for days when I’m one impulse away from committing homicide.
Boom.
Right hook.
Boom.
Left.
The bag quivers under my fists, and for a moment I feel myself breathing again.
But the second I close my eyes, I see him.
Him.
Between my legs.
Too irresistible.
Too Cohen.
My breath fractures again.
Dominic notices, but says nothing.
That’s why we’re friends: he never asks for explanations, and I never have to pretend I’m fine.
After what feels like an endless round, my arms stop responding the way they should.
They’re weak, heavy.
He tilts his head—barely—but it’s the universal sign for that’s enough.
“One more round,” I say, though my breath betrays me.
He lets go of the bag.
Doesn’t say a word.
I peel off the gloves and drop them to the floor, then look at him.
He runs the towel along the back of his neck, then hands me his water bottle.
I take it and drink deeply.
The cold water burns down my throat, but at least it drags me back to reality.
“Thanks,” I mumble.
“Mmh.”
I sit on the mat beside him.
He bends forward to unfasten the wraps still on his hands.
“He’s an idiot.” The words slip out.
“We all are.”
“He’s worse.”
“Then stop thinking about him.”
I lift my gaze to him.
He’s drinking from his bottle, posture relaxed, eyes steady but not invasive.
Serious. Quiet.
“It doesn’t work like that,” I whisper.
“I know.”
That’s it.
Two words—and I know that’s all I’ll get.
Dominic definitely knows everything, but he won’t say a thing.
He has to know… he always knows.
He’s the one who took me to The Aureum.
The one who dragged me out when I ran after sleeping with Cohen.
And I’m fairly sure he knows we didn’t stop at just that night.
He knows everything, and still—he doesn’t judge me.
And somehow, it’s freeing to have someone who knows your secret… without asking you to confess it.
I scoot closer and lean my head on his solid shoulder.
I can practically feel his annoyance. Dom… isn’t a particularly touchy person. Or sentimental in any way.
But he’s the best male friend I’ve ever had.
And I like him exactly like this.
“Don’t get sappy on me, Heart.”
I smile and nuzzle deeper into the crook of his shoulder.
Yeah, I really do like him just like this.