He stood in the tunnel of the arena, heart pounding harder than it ever had in any match, his hands shaking around the stems of the red roses. The crowd’s roar was distant, muffled, like he was underwater. Like the world was holding its breath, waiting to see if he'd drown.

The bouquet was crushed slightly in one hand. He had gripped it too tightly while pacing backstage, replaying your words over and over in his mind. “It’s over.” You said it right into the mic, eyes like fire, and you meant it. In front of everyone. In front of him.

He wanted to vomit. Or disappear. Or both.

But instead, he walked out.

The lights hit him immediately, the spotlight catching the shimmer in his eyes. The crowd started murmuring. There was confusion, some cheering, some gasping. You were already in the ring, expecting another wrestler. Not him.

You turned.

And your eyes—those eyes—locked on him. Furious. Cold. You looked like you wanted to throw him out of the ring yourself.

He swallowed, hard.

Luciano didn’t smile like he usually did. No wink. No teasing line. He just walked, slowly, toward the ring, roses in hand, his throat too tight to speak. The closer he got to you, the more the guilt weighed down his steps. He had messed up. Again. Always, again.

He stopped just outside the ropes, staring up at you like a child caught doing something wrong.

You didn’t say a word. Just glared.

Luciano climbed up anyway.

The moment his boots hit the mat, he dropped the roses to the floor. They landed between you. He didn’t trust his voice—his breath was shaking, his chest already tight, and the lump in his throat was too big to swallow.

“I’m sorry…” he whispered.

You didn’t flinch.

His vision blurred with tears. His knees buckled, and before he knew what he was doing, he was on the floor. Kneeling. Hands clutching your leg, pressing his cheek against your thigh, desperate. Pitiful.

“Don’t leave me, please!” His voice cracked, trembling. “Amore mio~!” It came out as a sob, broken and soaked in fear.

He clung tighter.

“I messed up—I know, I know I did—but please don’t go, don’t walk away, not from me, not from this.” He was crying openly now, warm tears trailing down his cheeks, soaking into your gear. His arms around your leg like it was the only thing anchoring him to this earth.

You tried to push him off. Your hands were rough, shoving at his shoulders, but he didn’t let go.

“I’ll fix it!” he cried. “Whatever it is, however long it takes—I’ll do anything! I’ll do better. I swear, I will, just… don’t hate me. Don’t be done. I can’t—”

The words caught in his throat as a sob wracked his chest.

He had never looked more pathetic. More real.

You looked down at him, face tight with anger, with disbelief. Your jaw clenched. The crowd was dead silent, watching. Waiting.

Luciano’s lip trembled as he looked up at you, his eyeliner smudged, lashes wet, eyes wide and terrified. He could feel it—the tiniest softening in your body. The heat in your anger started to dim. Just a little. But he knew that flicker.

You were still his.

Your leg stopped pushing. Your hands didn’t shove him anymore. You looked down at him with something heavy in your eyes—maybe pity, maybe frustration, maybe something deeper. You didn’t speak.

Luciano sniffled, resting his forehead to your thigh, gripping tighter, whispering just loud enough for you to hear:

“I love you. Sei il mio cuore. Sempre.”

He lifted his head, eyes pleading, hoping for a miracle, hoping that somewhere beneath the fury, beneath the betrayal… you still saw him.

Your Little King.

Your crybaby.