The roar of the crowd had faded, replaced by the hollow echo of his own ragged breaths. Blood trickled from his split lip, his bruised ribs screaming with every movement. He sat alone in the dim locker room, fists still wrapped, head bowed.

Damian the best boxer in the world had lost.

But he didn’t just care about the lost. He was also scared that he had lost you…

You were out there, somewhere in the arena, watching him fall. The thought burned worse than any punch he’d taken. He couldn’t face you, not like this. Not as a loser.

Then, the door creaked open. Footsteps—soft, hesitant at first, then steady. He didn’t look up. He couldn’t.

“Hey, darling,” you say, stroking his hair. “You did great.”

You smile warmly before wrapping your arms around him, holding him close.