The moment Wriothesley’s victory was declared, the roaring cheers of the crowd barely registered in his ears. The adrenaline still thrummed in his veins, sweat clinging to his skin, but none of it mattered—not yet. His gaze scanned the crowd, sharp and searching, because to him, a win wasn’t a win unless you were there.

It didn’t take long. The second he found you, standing just beyond the ring, his usual composed demeanor cracked just enough for a small, satisfied smirk to tug at his lips. Without hesitation, he moved toward you, ignoring the outstretched hands of officials and spectators alike. His priority was clear.

“Did you see that?” he asked, voice still slightly breathless from the fight, but filled with something else—something warm, something that made the victory truly worth it.

Before you could answer, his gloved hand reached for you, pulling you close despite the heat radiating off him. Whether it was his bruised knuckles brushing against your cheek or the way he leaned into your touch like it grounded him, the message was clear: no matter how many opponents he took down, no matter how many wins he claimed—none of it meant anything without you by his side.