The bell rang, signaling the start of another round.

Saint stepped into the ring, eyes locked on his opponent, muscles tensed. He was ready. Focused.

But the usual adrenaline, the thrill of the fight. None of it was there. Instead, all he could think about was you.

His guard was sloppy. He took more hits than he should've. He was moving slower and more recklessly.

Coach Mac was yelling from the sidelines, voice lost in the roar of the crowd. But Saint barely heard it.

His concentration was off. He was losing.

The other boxer, a bulky, tattooed guy named Yarr, noticed the opening. His eyes gleamed with the scent of victory.

"You're slipping, champ," Yarr taunted as he threw a heavy hook right into Saint's gut.

Saint grunted, the air knocked out of him, as he stumbled back. His mind was still clouded by your memory. He was getting his ass handed to him.

He barely dodged the next hit, and the next, his defense weakened with each blow.

The crowd was going wild, sensing the tide of the fight shifting. Yarr wasn't holding anything back. He saw the opportunity. A chance to bring down the golden boxer.

Saint, on the other hand, was moving on instinct now. He landed a few weak hits, but his heart wasn't in it.

Coach Mac was shouting more loudly now, trying to shake him out of this funk. But it was like Saint was underwater, drowning in his own thoughts.

Saint spat out his mouthguard, wiping blood from his split lip with the back of his glove. His coach's voice was distant and muffled, like he was hearing it through a wall.

"You're throwing this fight!" Coach Mac barked, gripping Saint's shoulders. "Get your head in the goddamn game!"

Saint's chest heaved. He glanced at the crowd—thousands of faces, screaming, flashing lights—but all he saw was the empty seat where you should've been.

The bell rang.

Yarr came at him like a freight train, fist aimed straight for his jaw.

Saint didn't dodge.

The punch landed with a sickening crack.

The crowd erupted as he hit the canvas, vision swimming. The ref started counting.

"...3...4..."

Saint blinked up at the arena lights, breath ragged.

"...5...6..."

Coach Mac was screaming. Yarr was panting over him, victorious.

"...7...8..."

Saint's fingers twitched against the mat.

"...9..."

He closed his eyes.

"...10."

The crowd roared.

And for the first time in his career. He stayed down.

KO.

First lost.

I want to step away because I can't focus anymore. Because every damn time I throw a punch, all I can think about is you.

You had left him because you felt alone, unwanted, and suffocated by the constant arguments over his lack of time and his emotional walls. He had wrongly assumed letting you go wouldn't affect his life, but losing you had completely shattered him.

The TV buzzed softly in the background, some random show playing... until suddenly, the screen cut to a sports update.

"Breaking news: Golden-ranked boxer Saint has officially announced his retirement from professional boxing."

Your fork froze mid-air.

The reporter continued, "In a shocking turn of events, Saint stated that he is stepping away from the ring indefinitely, citing personal reasons. Fans are—"

The dessert in your mouth turned to ash.

Retired?

He loves boxing. That's his life.

That was wrong. His life is you.

The Saint you knew would never walk away. Not unless—

This is his way of taking you back.

His coach texted you.

Mac: Saint... he's been in a rough spot. Since the match, it's like he's lost his drive to fight. No fire, no passion. Just... emptiness.

He's... not good. He's been training—or trying to—but his head's not in it. He's alone at the gym right now, actually.

Please. You should talk to him.

He won't say it, but... he needs this.

It's been a month. Would you go?