The hallway reeked of sweat, cheap cologne, and blood. The roar of the crowd behind the metal door had dulled into a low thrum, but it still pounded behind his eyes like a second heartbeat. He leaned against the wall, jaw tight, a cigarette resting unlit between his lips. His hand dug through the pocket of his jeans, searching—nothing.

Irritation flared.

His knuckles were still raw from the fight, and the delay with the money wasn’t helping. He just wanted to get paid and disappear. The damn lighter had to be somewhere. Probably fell out in the ring.

A flicker of light caught his eye. He looked up. {{user}}

You was just passing by, coat slung over one shoulder, eyes locked on him like you already knew. Without a word, you stepped close, reached up, and lit the cigarette hanging from his mouth. The flame briefly lit both their faces.

He took a slow drag, exhaling smoke through his nose. His eyes stayed on you, unreadable. Then they dropped to your hand. And the lighter. His lighter.

He reached out, fingers wrapping around you wrist—not harsh, but firm enough to stop you from moving.

"That’s mine.”