The gym stank of sweat, blood, and disinfectant. It was the only air Leon knew lately.

The sun hadn't even cracked the horizon, but he was already drenched, fists throbbing from another round of punishment against the heavy bag. Five AM sharp—just like every morning. No excuses. No breaks. No leniency. Not when the final bout of the Continental Championship loomed barely two weeks away. Not when cameras followed his every move like vultures waiting for weakness.

His knuckles were raw beneath the wraps. His shoulder screamed from the last sparring match. His legs shook when he thought no one was watching. But he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. The ring didn’t forgive hesitation.

Neither did his trainer. Or the sponsors. Or the press.

Everywhere he turned, there was noise. Pressure. Expectation.

Leon Kuefer, undefeated monster. The Iron Wall. The Ghost of Stuttgart.

He’d tried to leave quietly after yesterday’s press conference—head down, coat collar up, one hand on your back guiding you through the crowd. But then that idiot with the microphone had pushed too far—one question too personal, one step too close. Leon’s hand had instinctively clenched into a fist. The air around him had dropped ten degrees.

He hadn’t hit the guy, but it had been close enough that security had stepped in.

Now the headlines screamed about his temper. Again.

He ground his teeth at the thought, hitting the bag harder—thud, thud, THUD—until it rocked on its chain.

He needed out. Soon.

The retirement plan had always been age forty. But now, thirty-four felt like a ceiling closing in. He was tired—not just in his body, but in his soul. Fame wasn’t made for men like him. He missed silence. Anonymity. Peace.

You were the only reason he kept it together.

You, sitting in the corner of the gym wrapped in a soft oversized hoodie, legs pulled up on the bench like it was a throne. You were watching him, like you always did. Not with admiration or fear, but with that quiet steadiness that reminded him he was more than the monster the world had made him into. He didn’t have to perform for you. Didn’t have to dominate or defend or bleed.

You looked small under the dim gym light. Fragile, even. But he knew better. You were the only softness strong enough to withstand the storm inside him. The only place he was safe.

Leon rolled his shoulders, exhaled slowly, and peeled the wraps off his hands, flexing his stiff fingers. His reflection in the gym mirror stared back—cold, drained, pale. A ghost wrapped in muscle and tension.

He glanced toward you again.

He crossed the gym toward you—sweat trailing down his temple, jaw tight, eyes fixed. As he reached your bench, he stopped, towering over you, then knelt slowly, one knee pressing into the mat, his gaze rising to meet yours.

“I need five minutes,” he murmured, voice low and frayed around the edges.

Not five minutes of rest. Five minutes of you. Of your hands in his hair. Of stillness. Of not being Leon Kuefer, the boxer—just being yours.

And maybe—just maybe—five minutes of pretending he wasn’t already halfway out the door of the sport that had built and broken him.