Three, four, five… shit, he was pushing too hard. Oh, well. It may as well be upper and lower body day. And core, while he was at it.

Zeph knew damn well his coping mechanisms weren’t the best. Self-care was a hot bath after a good training session, not something he sat around and did with candles and yoga.

He did do yoga, but only under Bo’s instruction to help him stay limber. He wouldn’t dream of doing it to center his spirit or whatever the fuck most people did.

All he knew was exercise. As a kid, running miles at any new school with a track, and as a teen, working out in the backyard of whatever homes had one, and as a young adult, in the gym.

So working out, pushing his body to near-total collapse, was all he knew. He defaulted there when he didn’t know what else to do, so it was what he was doing when Tristan called the first time. And the second time. And the third time.

At last, there was a knock on his door.

Zeph tried to ignore it as he wiped the sweat out of his eyes and dropped to his back on the mat.

Another, harder rap on the door sounded. It followed a pattern he recognized. Aww, crap.

“Hey, Zeph. I know you’re lifting weights or something dumb.” Tristan. “Open the damn door, don’t make me use my spare key.”

“I’m busy.”

Tristan didn’t relent. “Doing what?”

“Fucking a pretty blond thing,” Zeph groused, flipping off the door.

“Right. Shave your palms, then, loser.”

Ouch. Zeph couldn’t help a quick snort, though. Nothing like a friend to lift your mood. He pushed himself slowly to his feet and made it to the door to pull it open.

“What?”

Tristan eyed him with a mix of annoyance and amusement, his lip lifting but eyes rolling. “Nice to see you, too.”

“I’m busy,” Zeph told him again.

Tristan jammed his toe in the door. “Don’t even think of shutting that in my face.”

“Well, now I’ll be shutting it on your foot.”

Tristan eyed him, then folded his arms. “You broke up.”

“Well done, Sherlock.”

“Officially?”

Technically, they hadn’t said the words, but River’s meaning had been clear enough. Zeph didn’t answer, but his silence answered for him.

“Oh, so you’re on some kind of figure out how to feel things break,” Tristan supplied.

Zeph cast a glare down the hall and stepped back to let Tristan in so his theatrical projection didn’t send his personal business down to the end of the hall.

Tristan stepped inside and stayed in the entranceway, leaning there. “So?”

“I don’t need your pity, let’s feel this out talk,” Zeph told him.

“What if I want to give it to you anyway?”

“Then you can fuck right off,” Zeph pointed at the door, glaring at Tristan. He should know better by now than to fuck around with that kind of thing.

Tristan raised his eyebrow. “Look at you, Mr. Snarls. Feeling tougher now that you’re not admitting to having feelings?”

Zeph folded his arms. “What do you want?”

“You to get over yourself, for a start,” Tristan fired back. For a willowy little twig, he sure had an attitude.

“Oh, right. I couldn’t possibly forget that with everyone reminding me I need to do it every five minutes,” Zeph scoffed. Fuck ‘em. They had no idea how much he had to get over.

“Man.” Tristan caught Zeph’s gaze and didn’t look away or back down, even when Zeph glowered. “I know you’ve had a lot of bullshit other people have done to you. Your parents are gone, your friends died, you were in foster care, right? Abuse there, too? Don’t give me that surprised look. Reading people is my job.”

Zeph was more disconcerted than angry for a second, but it was a lot easier to fall back into resentment and glare now that Tristan had actually said those words out loud.

“They’re not your fault. So why the fuck do you keep acting like they are?”

Zeph drew his brows together, about to say that he wasn’t, and he wasn’t even talking about them.

“You’re punishing yourself for things other people did. To you, or to themselves. Why? Is it because you can’t punish them?”

Zeph’s fists curled tightly, but he wouldn’t strike.

As if proving that very point, Tristan took a step closer, then another, until he rested a hand on Zeph’s.

“You’re a fucking machine in the cage, but you’re still not the kind of man who would hit me, even now with me in your face telling you you’re being an idiot, are you?”

Zeph had no idea what to even say in response. He just blinked, dumbly. He couldn’t see where Tristan’s argument was going.

“That’s what I thought. So they didn’t fuck you up that badly. You still care. You still like people. You love him, like it or not.”

Zeph swallowed hard as the penny dropped.

“So cut out the bullshit and act like the guy you are, in here.” Tristan tapped his chest once, then pushed away for the door. “And improve that attitude after you apologize to him for whatever you did and call me back, huh?”

“Fuck you, too.” Zeph half-smiled, unable to help himself, at the balls on Tristan. His friend just turned his back and walked away on him. Dozens of fighters he knew would never risk that, even on a good day.

But Tristan knew him.

Tristan blew him a kiss and pulled open the door. “Love you too, asshole.”

Like a deflated balloon, Zeph leaned on the wall when the door shut. For the second time, he found himself sitting on the floor of the hall, his eyes closed.

But this time, there was an inkling of something itching at him… an idea that maybe this wasn’t the end of everything he and River had been building.

That maybe there was a way through.

All thanks to Tristan. Sheesh. That asshole couldn’t just let him stew in misery, could he?

Damn it. I guess that’s what friends are for.