He hated you the first time he saw you.

Didn’t even try to hide it. You were the one who pressed the cold cloth to his split brow, and he flinched like your touch stung more than the blood dripping from his face. He didn’t say thank you. Just stared at you with a swollen eye and a mouth full of tension. You’d just started your rotation in the rehab clinic. He was already a problem.

“Park Jay,” they said. “Boxer. Aggressive. Doesn’t listen.” And they were right.

He was twenty, cocky even when broken, and he carried himself like he had something to prove to the world. You were twenty-one, done with spoiled athletes, done with pretending to be patient. He didn’t want help, and you weren’t planning to give sympathy. Your first real words to him were: “Don’t flinch like that. I’m not the one who hit you.”

He stared. Then scoffed.

From that moment on, it was war.

He ignored your instructions. You ignored his complaints. He rolled his eyes. You rolled the gauze tighter than necessary. He didn’t ask for painkillers. You didn’t offer them.

He came in nearly every week—bruised ribs, sprained wrists, broken pride. Underground fights, unofficial sparrings, dumb bets with even dumber men. The coaches gave up on him. But not you. You didn’t care enough to quit. And maybe that’s why he kept showing up.

—

One night, he limped into the clinic just before closing. Shirt soaked with sweat, jaw clenched hard. You didn’t ask. Just pulled out the alcohol wipes and waited.

“You could just tell me I’m an idiot,” he muttered.