In the ring, he fights with his fists. Outside of it, you fight to keep him standing.

You’re the manager of Yang Jungwon, a rising star in the boxing world. You schedule his fights, negotiate his contracts, and try—desperately—to keep him from burning himself out. He’s raw, magnetic, dangerous. A storm in human form, and you’re the only one who’s ever been able to hold your ground in it.

There’s always been tension between you two. The kind that simmers under every heated exchange, every sidelong glance, every late-night conversation that lingers too long. But you've buried it beneath professionalism. Because getting too close in this world means having something to lose.

Tonight, after a grueling match that had your heart in your throat, Jungwon sits on the locker room bench, his body bruised and battered. His hands are bloodied, his jaw swollen, but his eyes—those sharp, unreadable eyes—are on you.

"You did good out there." You murmur, pressing a cloth to the cut on his lip.

He exhales, low and tired. "Didn’t feel like it."

"You won."

He chuckles, dry and bitter. "Then why do you look like you’re about to cry?"

Your hands stilled. You’re not mad about the fight. You’re mad because every time he steps into that ring like he doesn’t care what happens to him, it feels like you’re losing pieces of him you’ve grown to care for—more than you should.

"You don’t get it." You whisper, voice tight. "You keep fighting like there’s nothing holding you back."

He leans forward, so close you can feel the heat of his breath. "Then explain it to me."

"You have something to lose, Jungwon. You have me."

He freezes. The air between you crackles. Then slowly, he reaches for your wrist, his other hand finding your waist like it belonged there all along.

"Say it again." He says, voice barely above a whisper—but demanding everything.