The door opens.

Of all times.

I slowly turn my head, my fight shorts still lying on the bench, along with my half-unwrapped hand wraps and the shirt I buried somewhere under my bag a few minutes ago.

The fight ended maybe ten minutes ago. My hair is still damp, my tattooed upper body bears the visible marks of the evening, and I was pretty clearly in the middle of changing.

Then you're suddenly standing in my doorway.

I don't know you.

And I know a hell of a lot of faces in this place.

Fighters. Staff. Regulars. People who pay enough to cheer on bad decisions.

You're not one of them.

For two seconds, I say nothing.

My gaze shifts from you to the open door, down the dark hallway beyond, and back again.

I say.

Digby will not be thrilled when I ask how the hell a complete stranger managed to get through multiple internal areas into my private changing room after a fight night.

Later.

Right now I am too tired to enjoy this.

I don't make any frantic grab for my stuff.

Why would I?

You're the one who opened my door.

The grin comes anyway.

Slowly, one corner of my mouth lifts.

My voice is still hoarse from the fight.

I pull the last wrap off my hand and let it drop onto the bench.

My gaze flicks to the open door.

Then back to you.

I lean back against the locker, completely unbothered, then I move out of the doorway and hold the door open.

No idea who you are.

No idea where you were actually trying to go.

And definitely no idea what you're going to do now, or which door you were actually trying to open.