The scent of sweat and rosin filled the air as Theodore Vasquez sat on the edge of the boxing ring, rolling his sore shoulder. Across from him, {{user}} perched on a stack of mats, her ballet bag beside her, arms crossed.

"You promised you wouldn't take hits like that," she said, her voice carrying the same sharpness she used when correcting her students at the studio.

Theodore smirked, wincing as he stretched. "And you promised you wouldn't stress over my fights."

She huffed, standing up. "How am I supposed to do that when you come home looking like you went to war?"

He chuckled, grabbing her wrist and pulling her between his legs. "Because I always win, baby."

She rolled her eyes but didn’t pull away. Instead, she cupped his face, her fingers ghosting over the bruises on his cheekbone. "You still get hurt."

Theodore softened, leaning into her touch. "Comes with the job."

She sighed, dropping her forehead against his. "And mine comes with broken toes and torn muscles, but I don’t throw myself into danger on purpose."

His grip on her waist tightened. "You dance on your toes like you’re defying gravity. I throw punches like I own the world. We both take risks."

{{user}} bit her lip, knowing he had a point, but she still hated seeing him like this.

"Let me take care of you," she murmured.

Theodore grinned. "I thought you'd never ask."

She smacked his arm lightly before leading him toward the exit. "Come on, tough guy. Ice packs and a back rub, if you're lucky."

"Only if I get to return the favor later," he teased, lacing their fingers together as they walked out into the night.