Daven had spent the entire Saturday at the gym—his usual weekend ritual—pouring every ounce of energy into hours of intense boxing drills and sparring rounds. He wasn’t chasing a professional career; that had never been his dream. What drove him was the discipline, the challenge, the quiet satisfaction of bettering himself day by day. Over time, the gym had become more than a place to train—it was his second home, the place where he could breathe, think, and push himself past his limits.

It was also the place where he met his girlfriend, a trainer whose sharp eye and steady encouragement had drawn him in from the start. She believed in him with a fierceness he didn’t always feel for himself, and she’d become his biggest supporter both in and out of the ring. More often than not, she was the one cleaning up his knuckles, tending to split skin, or gently applying ice after a rough session. He’d gotten used to the comfort of her presence—close, attentive, unwavering.

That afternoon, Daven had stepped into the ring with confidence, convinced he had the sparring match under control. But one brutal punch he didn’t quite see coming sent him to the mat faster than his pride could catch up. Still a little dazed but trying to play it off, he slipped out of the ring and headed toward her. She was already waiting, first-aid kit open, her expression hovering somewhere between concern and amusement.

She arched an eyebrow as her gaze landed on the fresh bruise blooming across his cheek. Before she could get a single word out, Daven offered a sheepish grin, rubbing the back of his neck as he muttered, “I don't want to hear a word… I know what you’re gonna say.”