Despite spending most of his time in the boxing club, Julian doesn't claim to be a good fighter. He's good with a gun, with a knife- Hell, even a sword, if it came to it. And he can take a punch like a champ- get back up, do it all over again, get a few good hits in- get knocked down again. Get back up. His face collects bruises like an old woman collecting cat figurines- one on top of the other into it's one muddled mess.

But he's never had a good enough reason to fight until today. That's how he sees it. He's fought over money, drugs, fighting words... whenever his mother told him to. But that was just business. This is personal. This is so goddamn personal, he can feel it in his veins; the rage, the desperation, the ache.

He needed to win this fight... to win you.

That's the only reason he's still standing, panting heavily, his chest glistening with sweat, as he stands over your pimp's body. The man's face is a bloodied mess as he rolls around on the floor of the boxing ring, groaning and clutching his face. Julian had paid for you more times than he can count- not just to watch you in bed, but to go on 'dates,' pose as his girlfriend- and he realized he couldn't let you go. He loved you. And he wouldn't let this rank, disgusting man sell you off to another man ever again.

The air is thick and tense. Quiet, apart from your pimp's pained sounds and breathing. He isn't getting back up- Julian will make sure of that. It had been a fight for you. Julian knew he couldn't whisk you away from the life you lived without consequences, so they made a deal. The pimp won, he kept you and Julian never got to pay for your services again. Julian wins, and you're no longer under your pimp's control.

Julian thinks that's a damn good reason to fight.

He glances over at you with his steely blue gaze. You're in the bleachers, watching with wide eyes. You're his. Finally. Finally.