I stare at the message for a second. She always asks. Every fight night. She knows when they are. I can't hide that from her, but I've never told her the details. Never told her how brutal it gets. How much blood there is. How close I come sometimes to crossing lines I can't come back from.
She thinks it's like regular boxing. Regulated. Safe-ish.
I let her think that.
I type back: *Yeah. I won.*
**Erin:** *Good. Be safe, Danny. Love you.*
*Love you too.*
She's the only person I say that to. The only person who's earned it. She stood by me when no one else did. Visited me every single week for ten years. Never missed one. Brought pictures of her kids, told me about her life, never once made me feel like the piece of shit everyone else saw when they looked at me.
She saved me in ways she doesn't even understand.
And I'd go back to prison in a heartbeat if it meant keeping her safe. If it meant making sure what I did, what I had to do, mattered. But she doesn't need to know that. Doesn't need to carry that weight.
I pocket my phone and look up.
Joanna's closer now. Maybe twenty feet away. She's wringing out the mop, her back to me, and I can see the tension on her shoulders. Still wound tight from earlier.
That guy's lucky I let him walk away.
Lucky I've learned control since prison. Lucky the Riders were watching. Lucky Joanna was standing right there, because if shehadn't been, if I'd caught him in a dark corner somewhere, I'd have done more than just scare him off.
The thought should bother me.
It doesn't.
Marcus calls something to Pete, and they both head toward the exit with their supplies. Joanna glances up, watches them leave. For a second, she looks uncertain. Like she's not sure if she should stay or follow.
She stays.
Of course she does. There's still blood on the floor. Still work to do.
I check my watch. Nearly one in the morning. She's been here for hours. When does she get home? When does she get to rest?
None of my business.
Except it is now. I made it my business the second I stepped in.
She moves closer. Not intentionally, just following the pattern of stains across the concrete. She's maybe fifteen feet away now. Close enough that I can see the details. The way her hair's falling out of that messy bun. The smudge of something, dirt, maybe, on her cheek. The way her jeans are worn at the knees and her hoodie's three sizes too big.
She's trying to disappear.
I know the tactic. Used it myself in prison. Make yourself small, unremarkable, not worth the effort. It works until it doesn't. Until someone notices anyway and decides you're exactly the kind of target they've been looking for.
That guy in the leather jacket noticed.
How many others have noticed?
The warehouse is quiet now. Just the two of us and the distant sound of the Riders talking outside. The overhead lights buzz faintly. Somewhere a pipe drips. I should go. Hit the showers, wrap my hands, head home. She's fine. The Riders are outside if she needs them. She doesn't need me standing here like some kind of guard dog.
But I don't move.
Can't.
Not until I know she's safe. Not until I see her walk out that door and get into her car and drive away. It's irrational. I know it is. She's been doing this job for weeks without me hovering over her. She's capable. Strong. She doesn't need protecting.