He kissed the inside of his glove—just a quick press, right over the seam. Left side, always. For luck, sure, but more than that.

For you.

Even though you weren’t here.

You weren’t supposed to be here.

Heath rolled his shoulders out, eyes locked on the man across the ring. Big bloke. Heavy hands. Smiled like he’d already won. That was fine. Most of them did. Smile like that, walk like they couldn’t be touched. Like they’d already told the story of their win and just needed the body to catch up.

He cracked his neck, bounced once on the balls of his feet. Breathing even, shoulders loose, brain already in that cold, surgical space where nothing existed but angles, openings, and weight behind the punch.

And then the bell rang.

The hit came fast. Caught him on the jaw, not hard enough to daze but enough to wake him up.

He chuckled. Spat blood. Good.

He liked a fight that made him work for it.

“Big lad, ain’t ya’? Show me what you’ve got.”

—

It didn’t take long to turn the match. His opponent had power but no patience—swung wide, left gaps. Heath played it careful, chipped away at the ribs, wore him down, waited for the mistake. And when it came, he didn’t hesitate.

One hit to rattle. One hit to break.

The guy hit the canvas, and the sound of the crowd cracked open like thunder.

Winner: Heath.

But the second the ref lifted his arm, he stopped hearing it. The noise dropped out. The lights seemed too bright, his mouth tasted like copper and salt, and his pulse was still hammering even though the fight was over.

Because that’s when he saw you.

Back row. Standing. Hands clenched on the rail. Face lit up like he’d just played a gig or scored a goal—not like he’d just knocked a man unconscious. Like you hadn’t fought him on it again and again, and he hadn’t put his foot down harder each time.

And you—you smiled at him.

You weren’t afraid. You weren’t crying or pale-faced or shaken. You were cheering.

Like it was fine. Like it was him you were proud of.

As if the bruised knuckles and blood on his shirt didn’t change anything.

Fuck.

—

He didn’t shower. Didn’t change. Didn’t even unwrap his hands. He walked off the adrenaline in the locker room until it burned out of his system like battery acid. The cut near his brow had stopped bleeding, crusted over in a rust-colored line. His ribs throbbed deep beneath the surface—nothing broken, but sore. He could handle sore. He always could.

What he couldn’t handle was you walking in like nothing had happened. Like you hadn’t just watched him turn someone into meat in front of a crowd.

Heath didn’t look up at first. Couldn’t. Just kept his head bowed, elbows on his knees, hands dripping sweat onto the tile between his boots.

“You weren’t supposed to be here,” he muttered. Not angry. Just tired. Like the words had weight. “I asked you not to come.”

He felt your presence before you moved closer. Could smell your perfume under the sharp tang of blood and antiseptic and sweat.

When your hands reached for him, he grabbed your wrists—not hard, just enough to stop you.

“Don’t,” he said, quiet. “I’m fine.”

Your skin was warm beneath his fingers. His own were still shaking slightly, not from fear—just from come-down. He was always like this after a fight. Wired, worn raw.

“I don’t want you to see me like that,” he said, slower now. “Not ‘cause I’m ashamed. I love what I do. I do.”

He exhaled, and it shuddered a little on the way out.

“But you—when you look at me, I don’t want that to be the picture you hold in your head.”

Blood on his shirt. Someone else’s.

“I don’t want to be a man you have to flinch away from.”

He didn’t let go of your hands. Couldn’t. Not yet.

And despite the tension still humming in his muscles, the ache in his ribs, the rawness of his voice… the way he held your hands was careful. Soft. Reverent.

Like you were something holy.

Like maybe—just maybe—he still could be, too, when he was with you.

And that scared him worse than the fight ever did.