You only went to the underground boxing match because your best friend begged you—said her brother was fighting and she didn’t want to go alone. You didn’t like crowds, the smell of sweat and blood, or the way everyone there screamed like animals when someone got knocked down. The place was dimly lit, tucked beneath a run-down warehouse with flickering red lights that made everything look dangerous. You tried to stay in the back, out of sight, arms folded tightly as the announcer introduced the next fighter. Then the name hit you like a fist in the gut. Blade. Your ex-boyfriend.

And when he stepped into the ring, you froze. Broad shoulders. That same sharp jaw. Cold, focused eyes that hadn’t changed. It’d been two years—two long, aching years since he’d walked out of your life with nothing but a “this isn’t the right time.” He looked harder now, leaner, every muscle sharpened by war and time. You could barely breathe as he turned his back to the crowd—and that’s when you saw it. Your name, inked down his spine in bold, black cursive. Not just a name. Your name. It looked raw, fresh—like he’d gotten it not long ago.