Dear Peter,

The reading was nice. There were more people there than I could have ever imagined. I never thought that the worlds I create would be the ones that people fall in love with. 

Well, I guess I was wrong. It wouldn't be the first time.

Anyway, 

Where were we? Right: Charlie and David's first fight.

It felt as if time stopped the second that David's fist made impact with Charlie's jaw. Even though you stood a few feet away from me, it was like I could feel you tense up, your fists clench, your shoulders stiffen.

Charlie almost fell back from the force of the punch, his hands cupping his injury as his face contorted with pain.

"David!" Zoya yelled as she rushed over to Charlie's side, tears brimming her eyes.

All it took was a second. You were advancing towards David and your eyes were filled with so much rage that it should've scared me, but it didn't. There was a storm brewing and still I was not threatened.

You never scared me.

David's eyes widened as he saw you advancing towards him, the color draining from his horrified face.

"Son of a―"

I hadn't realized that my feet were carrying me towards you and him. It was instinctual. Within seconds, I stood as the only thing blocking you from hurting him. 

Your face was rigid with rage. You always cared so much for Charlie and I knew that the punch he took probably pained you more than it pained him.

Zoya stood frozen, unable to comprehend the frenzy surrounding us.

"Please," I whispered, pressing my hands gently to your chest. I could feel your heart against my palm, racing with adrenaline.

Thump, thump, thump

And finally when you met my eyes, yours softened.

Humans can't control nature, right Peter? Then why, at that moment, did it feel like I'd just calmed a relentless storm?

Your shoulders relaxed and you stumbled backwards, not tearing your gaze from mine. 

I didn't care about what happened to David. What I did care about and didn't realize at that moment was you. You always resorted to violence, and violence was something that I never understood.

"Get out," you said between gritted teeth. Without any hesitation, David stumbled across the room, took Zoya's hand, and dragged her out with him. 

Charlie's gaze following the two as they left. He didn't look regretful; rather, he almost seemed pleased with himself. His hand was still on his jaw, which was now swollen, but he didn't look like he was in pain anymore.

He tried to smile, but winced  at the movement of his lips.

"That's gonna bruise," he joked. Even in the worst of situations, he found a way to be humorous. You rolled your eyes, the smallest of smiles tugging at your lips, and walked over to him, inspecting his jaw. 

I don't think either of you noticed when I spotted a back exit towards the end of the room and quietly left the building. There were no photographers or paparazzi in sight on this side of the venue, making me wonder why we hadn't entered from there. 

Shaking the thoughts out of my head, I sighed heavily and stood in the cold, a cold drop of rain landing on my nose. I didn't bother to wipe it away. 

I knew that sooner or later Zoya was going to need me that night. She and David fought so frequently that it seemed I spent at least one night a week consoling her. At the end of each time, she'd tell me that she loved him. And that it was all worth it. 

***

Two days following the party that we never got to attend, Zoya and I were standing at the entrance of the arena. It was supposed to be my second "interview" with you, and Zoya came in hopes that Charlie would be there, too. He told us that he was there frequently to help you train. 

Our assumptions were confirmed when I saw you and him standing in the ring. Charlie wore boxing punch pads on his hand and they were repeatedly met by your boxing gloves. He would move back with each impact, his curly hair bouncing each time, but kept his stance while you punched and punched.

You were so engaged in your training; it was mesmerizing to watch. Your lips were pursed and your eyebrows knit together, eyes focused on the target. 

"He's so intense," Zoya whispered to me, but it was loud enough that you heard and both your head snapped towards us. 

I smiled when confusion conquered your expression.

"Day 2, remember?"

You nodded slowly, taking off your gloves and throwing them aside. Charlie also took the punch pads off of his hands and ducked out of the ring, waving excitedly.

His jaw was still swollen, but he seemed to smile more easily now.

"What's this?" he asked as he grew closer, gesturing towards the gift box in Zoya's hand.

She ducked her head slightly, her right hand tucking her hair behind her ear.

"David wanted to apologize, so he sent a small present."

Her smile was feeble. I saw right through her lie. David would never apologize for what he did. She was the one who felt bad, so she had brought the present for Charlie, but he didn't seem to notice.

"Wow," he tossed the box back and forth between his hands before bringing it up next to his ear and shaking it. He looked like a child.

"Listen," Zoya sighed, embarrassed, "I swear he's not a bad guy. We've both been pretty stressed about the wedding, and he just got a little jealous."

Charlie laughed, shaking his head.

"Don't worry about it. I don't blame him." He winked, making her blush deepen.

"Speaking of which," Zoya's face lit up with an idea, "Do you want to come to the wedding? I'm sure I can squeeze you and Peter into the seating chart."

It was an idea that she and I discussed earlier that day. Charlie was someone who we both thought we could use in our lives. He was sort of an escape from all of the stress and negativity that always engulfed us. And you...well, you were a puzzle I was still trying to solve.

"As long as there's an open bar," Charlie sounded serious, making us laugh, "Oh and Lucy, I'll let you extend the invitation to Peter yourself."

With just that and a huge grin, Charlie walked Zoya out of the building. 

I didn't dwell too much on his words and walked towards where you sat on the platform, playing with a small item in your hands.  

"What you got there?"  I didn't mean to startle you, but a small ring fell out of your hands and rolled onto the floor, stopping right in front of my feet.

I picked it up. It was a simple band, graced by a small diamond. It looked expensive and too much like an engagement ring. A part of me was tempted to slip it onto my finger.

So many questions swarmed my thoughts as I stared at the cold diamond in my palm.

Without answering, you walked towards where I stood and took the ring from my hand, tucking it into your pocket.

"Who's the lucky girl?" I joked, trying to meet your eyes.

You shook your head curtly instead of answering. Retreating back to the corner of the platform, you picked up your gloves.

"You haven't been asked any questions, have you?" you asked while strapping on the gloves.

"Questions?"

Sighing, you picked up what seemed to be a magazine from beside your backpack and slid it towards me. 

I picked it up, my eyes widening at the sight of the front cover.

"PETER GRAYSON: Moved on from Miranda already? The son of the boxing legend was spotted attending the first boxing debut party with a brunette date under his arm. See page 9 for full story."

My mouth was slightly agape at the sight of a picture of you with your arm around me as we walked into the building.

Miranda. That name was shouted repeatedly by the photographers and so were these absurd questions. I knew that I could've easily researched who she was. Or what your father was like. Or basically anything else that I needed to know, but I didn't want to learn your story that way. I wanted to read you by myself.

"Who's Miranda?" I rolled the magazine up and tucked it into my backpack.

You scoffed.

"Is that really any of your business?"

I raised an eyebrow quizzically, crossing my arms in front of my chest.

"Considering that my face is plastered across the cover of a magazine and her name is part of the headline: Yes, it is my business."

You were irritated because I was right. 

You took a step closer.

"She was my girlfriend." I watched as something resembling pain flashed across your features. You avoided my gaze. It was something you did a lot.

That much I had already assumed. I wanted to know more; I wanted to pry and learn everything right that second, but I knew that doing so would get me nowhere. You were opening up to me and I couldn't ruin that.

"Okay," I set my backpack down and pulled out my journal and a pen, "So today, I just want some background information, you know, context."

I sat down on the other side of the ring, my legs crossed in front of me and the journal in my lap. 

You seemed surprised that I had changed the subject. You picked up a water bottle from where it laid beside your feet.

"Like?"

I opened my journal. You probably thought that I had questions written down, prepared to ask you. The journal was blank except for one word from our last meeting: "red."

You were wearing black gloves that day. So I wrote down that color.

"Like what inspired you to start boxing?"

You stopped pacing and faced me, your expression stone, a hand under your chin.

"Have you not done any research?"

This time, you didn't sound rude. Just shocked.

I shook my head.

"My father started training me when I was ten years old. I was good," you paused and sat down on the other end of the ring, "really good. But no one was better than him."

I nodded and pretended to scribble something down. 

"Do you like it?" I brought the pen up to my lips, afraid that maybe I'd asked the wrong question. The thing was that you never seemed happy. You lacked passion. Even after winning you'd be indifferent.

You cocked your head to the side, narrowing your eyes.

"I mean, why do you do it? I don't see how you could find enjoyment in hurting someone."

Immediately I knew that I had said the wrong thing. I blinked hard, bracing for the words that were about to escape your pursed lips. 

You laughed, almost cynically, and stood up.

"Enjoyment? You think that's why I fight?"

My heart was beating so fast that I was afraid you could hear it. 

You took a step closer.

Your hard eyes softened when you met mine. I like to think that you saw the innocence in mine. I was stupid, Peter. You know that. I would say the wrong things at the wrong times and never realize it.

Instead of speaking, you grabbed my arm and pulled me up. I didn't question you when you led me out of the ring and to stairs in the other corner of the arena. 

I trusted you.

The stairs seemed never ending. You still held onto my arm, your fingers loosening when you realized that I wasn't resisting. We walked down until you stopped at a door that was slightly ajar. There was another door next to it that was completely shut.

You let go of my arm and kicked it open, revealing a small room. 

In the corner there was a twin size mattress on the ground, neatly made with books scattered on top. Other than that, there were a few trophies in the corner and a small, old television with a stack of DVDs on top. 

The room was clean, but the walls were stained. 

"This is where you live?" I asked, my voice too small. I had assumed that you were rich. That maybe you and Charlie owned your own expensive apartment in one of the many buildings in the city. That's when I realized that the room next to yours was probably his.

I was positive that you had more than enough money to afford another place. I'd seen your clothes, your trophies, the monetary rewards of boxing matches. 

A feeling of resentment overwhelmed me. I felt intrusive; I felt like I'd seen something I wasn't supposed to.

You nodded, walked into the room, and turned to face me.

"Not what you expected?" you questioned, reading my mind. 

I shook my head, refusing to meet your intense gaze.

"There are some things, Lucy..." you paused, running a hand through your hair, "There are some things that we do because we have to. I don't have a choice."

I stepped forward,

"You always have a choice."

You grew closer,

"Do you not see this? This is my life. This is who I am. I'm not my dad. I have responsibilities. I have a little sister to take care of..." you voice wavered the slightest bit at the mention of Daisy.

"Is that why you do it? To take care of her?"

Your silence was all I needed.

You stepped even closer, so that we were only inches apart. 

"Not all of us can walk around with flowers in our hair and not all of us have people who care for them."

Your words didn't sting. They only made me want to hug you. To explain to you that you had no idea how wrong you were.

Your words reminded me of something. I reached into my jacket's pocket and pulled out another synthetic flower. I brushed past your shoulder and set the bright purple violet on your makeshift bed. It seemed to oddly fit yet contrast so much with the dullness and grayness of the room.

"You're wrong, Peter, I lightly placed an arm on your shoulder, "There's always someone that cares."

I stopped to face you, "And Zoya's wedding is next Friday. She would love it if you could come."

And I left.