Heavy hands
988 Words
On other side
POV: Reader
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An hour later, he stepped out of the physical therapist's office, feeling... better than he expected. Not healed, not fixed — but lighter. Like something in his muscles had finally unclenched. He rolled his shoulder, testing the tension. Still sore, but manageable.
His boots echoed down the quiet hospital corridor as he walked, hands shoved in his jacket pockets. Then his gaze drifted — unintentionally — to the nameplate across the hall:
Dr. Clara — Psychologist
Right beneath it, a small sign read: Mental Health is Strength, Not Weakness.
He scoffed.
Right! .
His jaw clenched as he looked away, irritation bubbling again. The image of that office flashed back — the warm lighting, the calm voice, the way she just... looked at him like she already knew something. Like she was waiting for him to crack.
He pushed open the hospital doors, breathing in the hot, dry air outside. No more sterile walls. No more soft-voiced guesses.
He walked fast to his car, unlocked it, and slid into the driver’s seat. The door thudded shut behind him. For a moment, he sat there, silent, fingers tapping the steering wheel.
“What do psychologists think they are, huh?” he muttered under his breath, starting the engine. “Study the mind for a few years and suddenly they think they can read every damn soul.”
He shook his head, reversing out of the lot, eyes hard on the road like it owed him something.
But even as he drove off, that sign, that name — Dr. Clara — stuck in the back of his mind. Like a splinter.
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He pulled into the lot outside the gym, parked in his usual spot, and stepped out. The heat hit him the second he closed the door behind him, but it was familiar — comforting, even. The heavy scent of sweat, chalk, and metal always lingered around this place. His place.
Inside, the rhythmic sounds of fists hitting pads and sneakers squeaking against the mat filled the air. He walked past the front desk without a word.
Ezra was in the ring, working with a couple of the younger boxers — guiding footwork, shouting out quick tips. His voice was sharp, focused, alive.
One of the teens — short, cocky, probably seventeen — spotted Rowan and lit up.
“Rowan bro! You here to train? Think you can take me today?” the kid grinned, already bouncing on his toes like he was about to spar.
Rowan just raised a brow but said nothing.
Ezra noticed him then. He tossed a punch mitt aside, stepped out of the ring, and grabbed a towel from the corner post. He wiped sweat from his neck as he came over, eyeing Rowan with a mix of surprise and amusement.
“What are you doing here today?” Ezra asked, stopping in front of him. “Thought I gave you a rest day — physical therapist and all.”
“I already went there,” Rowan muttered without stopping. “And I don’t need a rest day.”
He brushed past Ezra, not breaking stride, heading straight toward the locker room. Ezra opened his mouth to say something, but Rowan was already gone, his footsteps fading down the hall.
Ezra sighed, shaking his head, then turned back toward the ring.
“Hey, kid!” he called after him. “Come back here!”
Rowan didn’t.
Ezra raised his voice just a notch louder, not angry—just firm.
“You think rest isn’t important? Rest is part of training, genius!”
No answer. Just the sound of the locker door slamming shut somewhere in the back.
Ezra exhaled, tossing the towel onto a bench. “Stubborn i***t,” he muttered under his breath, but there was no real heat in it. Just that familiar concern—the kind you carry for someone who’s too used to running on pain.
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Rowan came back out like a storm — no small talk, no warm-up. Just gloves on and fists flying. He went at the heavy bag like it was breathing.
Ezra watched from the sidelines, arms folded, eyes locked. He said nothing at first, just observed. Rowan’s rhythm was relentless — too relentless. Each punch snapped through the air with more force than control. His breathing was heavy, but he didn’t slow down.
Minutes passed. Rowan didn’t stop.
Ezra finally pulled a towel from the bench and walked over. Without a word, he tossed it at Rowan mid-round. It hit him in the shoulder, forcing him to pause.
Ezra: You’re not hitting the bag. You’re hitting your past. That don’t fix anything.
Rowan caught the towel, wiped sweat from his face, barely looking up.
Rowan: You want me to cry mid-round now?
Ezra gave a short laugh — no mockery, just tired honesty.
Ezra: That bag didn’t start this fight, man. Whatever’s got you swinging like that, it ain’t gonna end with your fists.
Rowan: You giving therapy now, or just bored of watching?
Ezra: Nah. Just want you to last longer than I did.
There was a moment of silence between them. Not awkward — earned. Rowan glanced at him, something unspoken flickering behind his eyes… then turned back to the bag.
This time, the punches came slower. Not weaker. Just more real.
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- Writer
