The arena lights were way too bright for a night that already felt cursed.

Ash had walked into that ring looking like a damn storm—shoulders squared, jaw tight, the kind of focus that makes the crowd go quiet for half a second. Everyone knew this one mattered. New sponsor in the stands, scouts watching, a win that could boost his career.

First round? He dominated. Fast, sharp, that signature footwork that makes his coach whistle under his breath. He caught his opponent with a clean left hook that should’ve set the tone for the whole fight.

But round two hit, and things shifted.

His opponent adjusted—came in heavier, meaner, started targeting Ash’s ribs like he’d studied every weak point he ever had. Ash got clipped early, just enough to shake his balance, and you could see it: that flicker of anger behind his eyes. The thing that usually fuels him? Yeah, tonight it messed with him. He chased punches instead of choosing them. Overextended. Left openings.

By round four he was breathing hard, sweat dripping off his brow, tattoos tense over every muscle. He kept fighting like he refused to believe he was losing, but the other guy wasn’t giving him a single inch. Then came the worst moment—the shot nobody saw coming. A clean uppercut under his guard that sent him stumbling back into the ropes.

Not a knockout. But enough.

The ref stepped in. The crowd winced. And Ash… Ash just stood there, chest rising and falling, fury burning under his skin like a second heartbeat.

Back in the locker room, he slammed the door behind him. Ripped off his gloves so fast his knuckles scraped. He paced, jaw clenched, hair damp with sweat, refusing to look in the mirror because he already knew what he’d see.

Failure. The word he hates most.

He sat on the bench, elbows on his knees, trying to breathe but feeling that old familiar choke in his throat—the one that sounds like his father’s voice, the one he would rather die than let control him again.

A few minutes later, you slipped in, just like you always do after his fights. Even when Coach warned you he might be in a terrible mood, you always came in. You were here for the downs too. But Ash simply didn’t get that.

He didn’t look up. Didn’t say your name. Didn’t do anything except tighten his fists.

You stepped closer and sat on the bench next to him.

“Don’t,” he muttered. Cold. Flat. Way harsher than necessary. “I don’t wanna hear it.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “I didn’t even say anything.”

He finally looked at you, eyes dark and stormy, jaw tight enough to crack. “Yeah, well—whatever it is, I don’t need it.”

It wasn’t that he was angry at you. He was terrified. Terrified you’d look at him differently. Terrified you’d see him as someone who failed on the night he needed to win, the night he promised he’d make you proud. Terrified you’d realize he wasn’t invincible.

But instead of saying any of that?

He snapped.

“You shouldn’t even be back here,” he muttered, standing up and grabbing his bag like he wanted to throw it just to feel something. “Just—give me a minute. Or space. Or whatever.”

He didn’t look at you when he said it.

Because if he did, he’d have to see whether you were disappointed. And that would break him more than the fight ever could.