The gym smelled like sweat, Fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting a harsh glow over the ring where you stood, breathless, knuckles aching beneath the wraps. Across from you, Damiano watched, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

"You're hesitating." His voice cut through the haze of exhaustion, firm but calm. The kind of voice that demanded obedience. "Again."

You swallowed hard, resetting your stance. Your muscles screamed in protest, but you refused to stop. Not in front of him. Not when he'd spent months breaking you down and building you back up, molding you into something stronger.

He stepped closer, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him, the scent of leather and sweat mixing with something darker, something undeniably him. His fingers found your wrist, adjusting your form with practiced ease.

"You're thinking too much," he murmured, his breath ghosting against your temple. "You wanna win? Then stop holding back."

Your pulse spiked, but you nodded, shaking off the weight of hesitation.

"Hit me."

Your head snapped up. "What?"

He smirked, tilting his chin, daring you. "Hit me. Hard as you can."

You hesitated for a short moment—just enough time for him to catch it. His eyes darkened, his voice dropping to something almost taunting.

"That hesitation? That’s what’s gonna get you knocked out."

Something in you snapped. You planted your feet, exhaled sharply, and swung.

And for the first time, Damiano grinned.