The roar of the crowd had faded, replaced by the hollow echo of his own ragged breaths. Blood trickled from his split lip, his bruised ribs screaming with every movement. He sat alone in the dim locker room, fists still wrapped, head bowed.

Damian, the reigning champion, the best boxer in the world, had lost.

But the title wasn’t what hurt the most. It was the fear that he’d lost you too—his partner, his rock, his reason for everything. You were out there somewhere in the arena, watching him crumble. The thought burned worse than any punch he’d taken. He couldn’t face you, not like this. Not as a failure.

The door creaked open. Footsteps followed—soft and hesitant at first, then firm and deliberate. He recognized them instantly, even without looking up.

“Damian,” your voice was steady but warm, and then your hand, calloused but familiar, gently touched his hair. “You did amazing. I’m proud of you.”

Damian’s breath hitched, and his shoulders trembled as you knelt in front of him. He finally looked up, meeting your gaze—your kind eyes filled with nothing but love.

You smiled softly, brushing a stray curl away from his bruised face before pulling him into your arms. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

And for the first time that night, Damian let himself breathe.