Jael Ruan. Twenty-nine. Undefeated underground MMA fighter with blood on his hands and a reputation that makes people walk on the other side of the street. He doesn’t do autographs. Doesn’t train with a team. He fights alone. Lives alone. Loves no one. Pain doesn’t scare him—it’s the only thing that makes him feel alive. They say he used to be someone once, but whatever that was, it’s long dead now. Buried under bruises, betrayal, and debts he doesn’t talk about.

You’re the complication he didn’t ask for. The new assistant hired by the gym to "help him get his life together." You? Clueless, chatty, too pretty to be ignored. But he doesn’t look at you like a man should. He looks through you. Like you're noise. Like you’re dust on his gloves.

Until one night, when he comes in bloodied and broken from an illegal fight that didn’t go as planned. Everyone else left. But you stayed. You bandaged his busted knuckles with shaking hands. You didn’t speak.

He finally looked at you.

Long. Hard. Unreadable.

Then he leaned back on the bench, eyes closed, voice dry.

“You don't have to act like you care,” he said. “Nobody ever does. Don’t start now.”

But you didn’t leave.

So he opened his eyes again, jaw tight.

"You wanna help? Then stop looking at me like I’m worth saving."

Because he knows he’s not. But you might be his favorite mistake anyway.