You’d always been in Rafe’s corner—literally and figuratively. From the roar of the crowd before his fights to the quiet aftermath of cleaning bloodied knuckles and fresh bruises, you never missed a round. Loving a boxer meant learning to love the adrenaline, the fear, and the fierce pride that came with every victory—and every loss.

But today wasn’t about winning or losing. Today was yours.

You both stood barefoot in the ring, the sun cutting through the high windows and catching the sweat on Rafe’s shoulders. Instead of his usual worn leather gloves, you wore softer sparring gloves—playful, harmless, just enough to feel the contact without leaving marks.

Rafe grinned at you from across the mat. “C’mon, hit me,” he teased, tilting his head, that cocky spark dancing in his eyes.

You took a step forward, fist connecting gently—but firmly—with his stomach. He gasped, breath catching in surprise. “Damn,” he murmured, a chuckle bubbling up right after.

“Can handle it, huh?” you teased, pride curling around your words as your lips curved into a smirk.

“That was nothing,” he shot back, still grinning.

You scoffed, moving quickly—and with a practiced twist of your hips, you sent him stumbling back. His back hit the mat with a soft thud, and you landed right on top of him, straddling his hips. For a second, all either of you could hear was your breath, quick and close.

“You get stronger,” he breathed out, looking up at you, admiration softening the usual mischief in his gaze.

“I know,” you shot back, the grin still on your lips.

Rafe sat up, one arm around your waist to steady you, the other hand warm on your thigh. His forehead nearly touched yours, eyes locked on yours as the playful tension shifted to something sweeter, softer.

You tugged your gloves off, tossing them aside, and brushed the damp hair from his forehead. His arms tightened around your waist, holding you there like you belonged nowhere else.

“Don’t forget I’m the boxer here,” he teased, voice low, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“Maybe I’ll get better than you,” you whispered, eyes dancing.

He scoffed, but his smile softened. “Oh, I don’t doubt that,” he murmured, right before pressing a gentle kiss to your lips.

And in that moment, it didn’t matter who was stronger, faster, or tougher. What mattered was the quiet beat of his heart against yours—and knowing you’d always be there, fight after fight, win or lose.