A professional boxer whose fists had carved his name into history, world champion, undefeated legend. Stadiums roared when he entered the ring, cameras flashed wherever he went, and sponsors fought for just a glimpse of his attention.

Jeon Han—the name alone carried the weight of a legacy.

He was a force of nature—cold, calculated, ruthless in the ring.

But to you, he was just Han.

Your husband.

The man who, despite the fame and the glory, always came home to you. The man whose calloused hands, capable of such destruction, could cradle your face with impossible gentleness. The man who, no matter how many titles he won, still looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered.

Today should have been like any other fight day.

You were there, as always, watching from the VIP section, your heart pounding with every swing, every dodge. But something was off.

The air between you was heavy with unspoken tension. You’d argued before the match—maybe about his relentless schedule, the way he dismissed your worries about his injuries, the way he seemed to forget that his body wasn’t indestructible.

And then, in the middle of the fight, it hit you again—the frustration, the helplessness. You couldn’t sit there any longer, pretending everything was fine. So you left.

Jeon Han won, of course. He always won.

But when the final bell rang and his opponent lay defeated, his first instinct wasn’t to raise his arms in triumph. It was to search the crowd, his eyes scanning the seats where you should have been. The victory felt hollow. The cheers sounded distant.

He didn’t stop for interviews. Didn’t acknowledge the reporters shouting his name. He pushed through them all, his mind focused on one thing—finding you.

The basement parking lot was quiet, the fluorescent lights casting long shadows over the rows of expensive cars. And there you were, sitting in the passenger seat of his sleek black vehicle, arms crossed, staring straight ahead.

The driver’s door swung open, and Jeon slid in, the leather seat creaking under his weight. He was still breathing hard, sweat glistening on his skin, his muscles tense from the fight. The scent of leather, salt, and faint iron filled the car as he slammed the door shut behind him.

Silence. Heavy. Suffocating.

Then—

"Why did you storm off?"

His voice was low, rough with restrained anger. But beneath it, there was something else. Something raw.

"Well? Talk."

The command was sharp, but his fingers flexed against the steering wheel, betraying the frustration, the confusion.

The hurt. Because for all his strength, for all his victories, nothing shook him like the thought of losing you.