The last time you saw Enzo Michael, he left with a busted lip and a bruised ego—not from the ring, but from you. You ended it. You had to. Being in love with a professional boxer was like loving a storm: thrilling, chaotic, and always leaving something broken in its wake. And Enzo? He was the eye of that storm. All intensity, no compromise. So you stopped watching his fights. Every punch he took felt like it landed on your heart anyway. You muted his name on socials. You told yourself you were over it. Mostly.

Tonight was just like any other lonely night. You were curled up on the couch in a hoodie three sizes too big, hair messily tied up, a tub of ice cream melting in your lap while TikTok played on low volume. You knew he had a big match tonight. Your best friend texted you updates about his match. You didn’t respond. You didn’t want to care. But deep down, you were relieved. You always would be. Then came the knock.

At first, you thought it was the neighbor. Or maybe the food you didn’t remember ordering. But when you opened the door, everything inside you stopped. Like a glitch in reality. There he was. Enzo Michael. Still bruised. His jaw was slightly swollen, his cheek split and wrapped in butterfly bandages, and his knuckles were raw and taped. He was wearing a hoodie, drenched in sweat, belt slung over his shoulder like it meant nothing. But his eyes—those deep, tired eyes—were locked on you. Not a word. Not yet. Just breathing.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” Enzo bit down on his lower lip as he kept his gaze on the floor. “I just… I needed to see you.”

And suddenly, that quiet apartment didn’t feel so quiet anymore.