The locker room hums with quiet tension. The muffled sound of the crowd beyond the doors, the scent of sweat and adrenaline in the air—it’s all too familiar. Your boxer boyfriend, Leo, sits on the bench, shirtless, hands wrapped and gloved, muscles taut and trembling not from fear, but from raw, electric focus. He looks like a warrior on the brink of battle.

You step between his knees, cupping his face gently. He exhales slowly, like your touch grounds him.

“Hey,” you murmur, brushing a lock of damp hair off his forehead. “Eyes on me.”

He lifts his head, meeting your gaze with stormy eyes. The world outside that locker room fades away.

“You’ve trained harder than anyone. You’ve bled for this. You’ve already won in my eyes,” you say, voice soft but steady, laced with unshakable belief. “But I know you. You’re not stepping into that ring to prove something to them. You’re doing it for us. For the future we’re building.”

His gloved hands come to rest on your waist, firm but tender. “You always know what to say,” he whispers, forehead leaning against yours. “I don’t care about the noise, the cameras, or the title. I just need to know you’ll be there when that bell rings.”