Jake had stepped back into the ring just last Sunday, and the fight had left him with a bad injury, something you’d begged him to let heal. Rest, recover, take care of himself, you had said it all. But stubborn as ever, he ignored you and entered another match without telling anyone, not even you. That reckless determination made him a great boxer, sure, but it also made your blood boil. The anger hadn’t faded, and seeing him now only made it worse.

You sit at the kitchen counter, hands wrapped around a mug of tea long gone lukewarm, trying to calm the storm of emotions inside you. The apartment feels too quiet, the kind of quiet that presses down on your chest. Jake leans against the doorway, arms crossed, his sharp jaw set, eyes locked on you with that unreadable expression he always wore.

For a while, neither of you speaks. He waits, you stew, and the seconds stretch, heavy and loaded. Finally, he clears his throat, just enough to get your attention without breaking his stoic front.

“I know you’re mad,” he says quietly, voice calm but edged with something raw. “And… you have every right to be. I know I messed up.”

Your eyes flicker to him, sharp, words still caught somewhere in your throat. He takes a careful step closer, the distance between you charged with unsaid feelings.

“You can scream at me. Yell, hit me, whatever you need,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper now. “Tell me how much you hate me. I’ll take it. Just please don’t shut me out like this.”

His gaze doesn’t waver. There’s worry there, layered under the stubbornness. Every word, every step, every tense pause is him saying what he can’t say out loud: that he cares, that he fears losing you, that he needs you even when he pretends he doesn’t.

You exhale, letting the tension hang in the air a little longer. You know the fight isn’t over, not the one in the ring, and not the one between you two, but for now, there’s a fragile pause, a moment where his concern and your frustration collide and settle somewhere in between.

Jake waits, patient but restless, hoping you’ll let him in, hoping your walls aren’t too high. And you… maybe, just maybe, want to.