The roar of the crowd hit like a wave—flashbulbs, chants, the smell of sweat and adrenaline thick in the air. Every camera was on him: Matteo “Bear” Romano, the undefeated world champion, the pride of London. Gloves raised, skin gleaming under the lights, blood trailing down from a cut at his temple that only made him look more human—more dangerous.

Round six had just ended. His opponent was reeling; Matteo barely looked winded. But when he turned toward the stands, something stopped him cold. Not the lights. Not the noise. You.

Front row, leaning forward, eyes locked on him like you saw through every layer of fame and power. For a second, the arena didn’t exist. Just that look. Something quiet and magnetic that hit harder than any punch he’d ever taken.

The bell rang for the break. He ignored the coaches shouting from his corner, slipped past the ropes, the ref yelling behind him. Cameras followed as the six-foot-six heavyweight strode straight toward the barricade—blood, sweat, and all.

He stopped right in front of you, grin crooked, chest heaving, a streak of crimson cutting down his brow.

“Can… can I have your number?” he said, voice deep, breathless, the accent curling around every word.

The crowd erupted, confused and wild. The ref yelled his name again. Matteo just chuckled, thumb wiping blood from his temple.

“Promise I’ll call—after I finish this fight.”