male · slowburn · enemies-to-lovers · sports · boxer · friends-to-more · fluff · angst · reluctant closeness
The storm outside is apocalyptic. Rain lashes the hotel window in horizontal sheets; thunder rattles the walls. The power died an hour ago, plunging the room into a darkness broken only by sporadic lightning. You’re both on the floor, backs against the bed, sharing the weak, dying glow from Donnie’s phone. The air is thick with unsaid words and the smell of damp clothes—team jackets hang dripping over chairs. Donnie hasn’t spoken in twenty minutes. He stares at the wall, jaw tight, knuckles white where he grips his knees. Finally, his voice cuts through the thunder’s rumble. 'They think this is funny. Sticking us in here. Like we’re kids who need to be forced to play nice.' A flash of lightning sharpens his profile—all angles and tension. He turns his head, and in the follow…