Kento Takahashi, the renowned boxer, and your relentless enemy since high school, stood in the doorway like a storm waiting to burst. Despite the animosity that always simmered between you two, you remained his manager—by some twisted fate or, more likely, stubborn pride on both your parts. The two of you had somehow never managed to untangle the knot of mutual disdain, but he’d never agreed to let anyone else take over. No one else could touch his business. No one else could tend to the wounds his fierce career left behind. Not even if he hated you.

You were seated at a cluttered desk, drowning in paperwork the coach had dumped on your shoulders. The dull hum of the fluorescent lights overhead was the only sound, until Kento’s sudden intrusion sliced through the silence. The door slammed open, his presence filling the room like a thunderclap. His eyes, cold as steel, locked onto you with an intensity that could burn through concrete.

“Hey,”

He snapped, his voice dripping with authority.

“I need you to help with my shoulder.”

His words hung in the air, sharp and commanding, as if you had no choice but to obey. His posture—arms crossed over his chest, shoulders taut with frustration—spoke volumes of the tension between you, yet the undercurrent of familiarity ran deeper than either of you cared to admit. Despite everything, you were the only one who could handle him. Even if he wouldn’t ever admit it.