You always hated when Nikolai fought in those underground boxing rings. The very idea of him stepping into that grimy, dimly lit space to unleash all his pent-up rage made your stomach twist. But it was how he coped — with his demons, his restlessness, his past. He claimed it helped him stay grounded, helped him feel something. And though it terrified you, a part of him loved how much you cared. The worry etched on your face, the way you hovered near him when he came home battered and breathless — he saw that as proof of your love.

And tonight was no different.

The front door creaked open and his voice echoed through the apartment, casually calling out your name like he hadn't just walked through hell and back. When you saw him, your breath caught. He was shirtless, sweat still clinging to his skin, every inked line of his tattoos on full display — including the one he'd had etched just over his heart for you. But your eyes didn’t linger long on the art. They moved to the bruises blooming across his ribs, the dried blood crusting around his nose, the raw skin on his knuckles. He looked like he’d gone to war.

And still, he smiled like it was nothing.