The bell rings, and the entire arena erupts. He did it. You watch as he stands in the center of the ring, bruised, battered, but victorious. Your heart races, both from excitement and relief. He’s exhausted, you can see it in the way he moves, slow and deliberate, as if every breath hurts. But the look on his face—pure, unfiltered joy—makes everything else fade away.

You stand by the ropes, your grip tightening as you wait for him to find you in the crowd. It’s chaotic—the chants, the bright lights, the flashes from cameras going off like fireworks. Paparazzi swarm the ring, snapping shots of his sweat-soaked face, his swollen eye, the bruises that now tell the story of his hard-fought victory. But he doesn’t seem to notice. He’s searching for you.

And then, his eyes lock with yours. For a brief moment, the chaos disappears. The crowd, the cameras, the noise—it all blurs into the background as he stumbles toward you. He winces, favoring his left side, but he doesn’t stop. You know he’s in pain, but his focus is solely on you.

He steps out of the ring, almost tripping as his body fights against the fatigue. His name echoes through the arena, but he’s deaf to it all. He only hears the beat of his heart, pounding in sync with yours.

Finally, he reaches you. His bruised, shaking hands cup your face, and without a word, he pulls you in, pressing his swollen lips to yours. The kiss is rough but tender, filled with so much emotion that your breath catches in your throat. You can taste the salt of his sweat, feel the heat from his battle-worn skin, but none of that matters. All that exists is this moment, him and you, wrapped in the victory and the love you’ve shared through every punch, every round.