บททั้งหมดของ Fighting Hearts: บทที่ 21 - บทที่ 30

The Madrid night lay thick over the city, as if the sun had let go of the squares, the windows, and the cobbled streets reluctantly, inch by inch. Only one light was on in the kitchen on the hotel's second floor. The cold fluorescent glow lit up the steel countertops, the small four-person table, and the single woman sitting there—Sloane Quinn. Only a few bites remained on her plate, but her fork hadn't moved in minutes. The food had gone cold, and she hadn't noticed. Her eyes stared at the edge of the plate, but her mind was elsewhere. In the ring. At Paolo's punch. That one strike—too precise, too deep. And then the door opened quietly. Lennox Graves walked in. His hair was still wet, slicked back. His black shirt clung slightly to his body. His walk... was unnatural. Too stiff. Too controlled. Anyone who truly knew him—who had watched his every movement day after day—could tell something was wrong. And Sloane saw it. He headed straight for the fridge, but halfway ther

The dawn had barely begun to emerge on the outskirts of Madrid when Sloane was already awake. Behind the hotel window, the city slept deeply. Only the bluish light of distant streetlamps flickered over the occasional shadow. The world was still quiet, but in Sloane's mind, the clock had been ticking for days. By 5:30, she was dressed in training pants and a pullover, her hair pulled into a bun. She turned on a single light in the kitchen—just enough to see. The espresso machine hissed as it poured the coffee. On the table, her tablet, notes, and a printed list were already in place: profiles of potential sparring partners, complete with physical and psychological evaluations. Three days to Prague. And still, they didn't know who would be traveling with them. Most people hadn't even blinked open their eyes at this hour. But Sloane's mind was already aligned with the rhythm of the day: 6:00 – screening. 7:30 – movement test. 9:00 – Lennox wakes up. 10:00 – decision.

Lennox was still kneeling in front of Sloane, his hand hovering above her shin—close, but not yet touching. The movement remained unfinished, like a sentence we're too afraid to speak because we don't know where it might lead. But then... something shifted. A flash. A realization. A feeling that refused to wait any longer. Sloane's pain was no longer just a movement. No longer just poor weight distribution. Not just "a mistake on the mat." It was real, human injury—and the person sitting before him had become important. Truly. Deeply. Rawly. In a single moment, she became that—and there was no turning back. Lennox shot to his feet. He didn't look at anyone. Didn't ask for permission. Didn't give a speech. He just stepped toward Sloane and, with a decisive motion, lifted her into his arms. At first, she froze. Her eyes widened—not from pain, but surprise. The reflex to pull away flickered in her body, but Lennox's hold was steady, instinctively strong, yet careful, and she co

Madrid welcomed the morning with soft light. The first warm rays of early sunlight filtered through the window of the hotel's second-floor kitchenette, and the world around it stirred slowly, lazily awake. The room was still quiet, and only one person moved inside it: Lennox. He had been up for a while. No alarm had gone off, no one had woken him—his body simply knew when it was time. And yet, something else had drawn him out of bed this morning. Something he couldn't quite name. Maybe... habit. Maybe awareness. Maybe that strange, quiet restlessness that had pulsed through him last night as he placed Sloane down for dinner. Now he stood barefoot at the kitchen counter, wearing gray sweatpants and a navy blue shirt that stretched across his shoulder blades. Preparing breakfast wasn't rushed: he sliced toasted bread, mashed avocado, fried eggs in a pan—the soft sizzle filling the room. His movements were mechanical yet precise. Behind every motion was one clear thought: don't m

The plane continued to cut through the sky with a steady, monotonous hum, as if it were gently rocking its passengers. Outside, the sun was already high, but the cabin remained bathed in soft light, the shades drawn halfway down, the air vents barely stirring. The world was out there – far below, beneath the clouds. Up here, there was only silence. Sloane had barely moved for the past half hour. She'd tucked her tablet back into her bag, slid the stylus into its case, and her movements had grown heavy. Her head tilted back, and her gaze lingered on random points, no longer reading – just staring. Her fingers lay slack on her knees. And then... slowly, almost imperceptibly, she let her hair down. It fell around her face first – soft golden strands framing skin that was no longer tense, only tired. Then it spilled over her shoulders and back in a long, gentle wave, like a warm blanket under which the body could finally allow itself to rest. She glanced around one last time, th