The bar was dim, the kind of place where hockey highlights played silently on TVs and the jukebox always had Springsteen or something close. Matt Rempe had just wrapped up a gritty win, still riding the buzz of adrenaline and the sting of knuckles not quite healed.

She was there—leaning against the bar with a drink that looked too sweet for the setting. Their eyes met like they’d been waiting to meet all night.

They talked. About nothing. About everything. She teased him about his height. He joked about her boots being combat-ready.

And then, without warning, in a moment suspended between laughter and a dare, she reached out. Gently, almost reverently, she took his bruised fingers to her mouth—kissed the knuckles soft.

It wasn’t about lust. It wasn’t even about love. It was about recognition. Like she saw the fight in him, and honored it.

Matt grinned, not his usual lopsided smirk, but something quieter. The kind of grin that sneaks up on you when life reminds you you’re still human.

It was bold. It was a little wild.

And it was definitely the kind of thing that makes you proud.