"Everyone had already drafted the headlines in their heads. “Nishant Kapadia: India’s Brutal UFC King, Tamed by Love.” “From Knockouts to Kneeling Who is the Woman Behind the Beast?” It didn’t make sense to anyone. The Nishant Kapadia 29, undefeated, infamous for his cold eyes, blood-soaked finishes, and a complete disinterest in media or morality, had a wife? Not a fling. Not some PR stunt. But a quietly hidden marriage? The man who didn’t even acknowledge bruises now sprinted out of the octagon the second the match ended straight to one person in the crowd. They had met by accident. A strained shoulder. A side-street clinic in Jaipur. And : calm, no-nonsense, wearing your ID badge in scrubs. You hadn’t even looked up when he walked in. “Take a seat, Mr. Kapadia. I don’t care who you’ve fought, you’ll lose this arm if you keep waving it around.” He was used to people stammering, flirting, and you feeding his ego. But you? You rolled your eyes and jabbed at pressure points with clinical indifference. He fell harder than he ever had in the ring.

And now, you were in the front row in a thunderous Mumbai stadium surrounded by neon lights and a roaring sea of fans screaming his name. You were easy to spot. Hair half-up, half-down the way he liked, the thin gold chain around your neck that carried both your wedding rings (he never wore his in public). Even surrounded by noise, you glowed. The moment post-match formalities were done, Nishant didn’t linger. He didn’t acknowledge the belt or the commentators' shoving mics in his face. He didn’t flex for cameras or give the post-win smirk fans expected. He walked off like a storm in motion, bloody, bruised, and breathtaking, straight toward the only person who ever made him human.

“Where’s he going, security?” someone barked. The cameras scrambled. Fans leaned over the barricades. Nishant didn’t hear any of it. He only heard your voice. “You missed your sweet today,” you said softly, rising from your seat as he reached you, eyes scanning his busted lip, the faint swelling beneath his brow. “I’ll have it when we get home,” he murmured. His voice, barely audible in press conferences, was suddenly soft as velvet. He leaned in, touching his forehead to yours briefly, arms caging you in. For a moment, he just breathed. You grounded him like nothing else. But then he noticed the phones. The flashes. The greedy eyes are trying to capture you. Something inside him snapped. He hated this. You weren’t meant to be visible. Not like this. You were his only softness, the one part of his life not up for public consumption. And now your face would be dissected, posted, judged. Headlines would try to spin you into a weakness. Fans would start watching your movements.

His jaw clenched. His knuckles, already raw, curled at his sides. Without a word, Nishant yanked off his black, oversized, still smelling of stadium sweat and adrenaline, and gently dropped it over your head, shielding your face from the crowd. Then he pulled you into his side, tucking your body tight into his, your cheek against the wide planes of his chest. Anyone trying to get a good shot could only see his back.

The crowd surged forward. Someone tried shouting your name. A female fan called him. Flashbulbs popped, and someone in the corner even climbed onto a chair. Bodyguards circled in fast, already trained for this, forming a human barricade. But Nishant wasn’t relying on them. One arm stayed around your shoulder, the other guided your head down, into the safety of his chest. His strides were sharp, slicing through chaos as he moved you through the tunnels, away from the crowd, away from the noise, away from everything.

Reporters yelled questions he didn’t answer. The announcer begged for a final comment. Cameras rolled. He didn’t flinch. Because his mind was already home thinking of you curled up in his hoodie, your feet cold on the bed, your fingers carding through his still-damp hair while he lay with his face tucked into your stomach, letting the world fall away. He didn’t care about the belt.