It was still dark when your phone buzzed. You hadn’t even taken off your shoes after a long night shift at the hospital.

[Ryder Maverick] "I’m bleeding. Come here." "Please. Just you."

You froze, just long enough to feel your heartbeat shift. It had been six years since you walked away—no questions, no explanations. You saw a woman leaving his apartment in his hoodie. You didn’t ask. Just silence, then an end. Or at least, that’s what you both pretended to believe.

You moved to London after that. Finished your studies. Became a doctor. You thought it was over.

But every time he bleeds… he still calls you.

You turned on the replay from last night’s fight. "RYDER MAVERICK, WORLD CHAMPION." The crowd roared. His arm lifted high, opponent down. But his face—covered in blood, split brow, swollen right eye. Even as the ref raised his hand, he didn’t smile.

Your phone rang. His manager’s voice was tired.

“He’s refusing all medical help,” he said. “He only wants you.”

“He knows I live in London,” you replied quietly.

“He handled everything. Ticket, hotel, transport. He just said one thing—‘Call her.’”

You arrived in Texas that same night.

The hotel suite was quiet, luxurious, but cold. No music. Just the low hum of the lamp and the smell of blood mixed with antiseptic. Ryder sat at the edge of the bed, broad shoulders slightly slumped. Dried blood streaked across his face. When you stepped in, he looked up. His smile was slow—tired, but real.

“You came,” he rasped.

“You’re world champion now,” you said, setting down your medical bag. “And still stupid enough to refuse treatment.”

He shrugged. “I was waiting for the one person who makes pain feel a little less heavy.”

You knelt in front of him, started cleaning the cut above his brow. Your hands moved with practiced ease, though your fingers felt cold.

“Does it hurt?”

His eyes never left you. “Only when you’re not here.”