You weren’t supposed to be good at taekwondo.

You had only joined the club three months ago—part curiosity, part stubbornness. Everyone else had already been training for years, but you… you just wanted to try something that scared you. Something that would make you stronger. At first, your kicks were awkward and your balance was terrible. But you didn’t give up. Bruises faded. Technique improved. And soon, you were asked to join your first regional match.

That’s where you met him—Rafa. He was taller, faster, and far more experienced. But more than that, he was kind. He helped you fix your guard during training, held the pads for you after practice when no one else did, and even gave you pointers during water breaks. You joked, sparred, even shared snacks on the sidelines. He made everything feel easier.

So when you saw his name listed as your opponent for the semifinals, your heart sank.

You knew how much this meant to him. Winning this match could push him to nationals. He had trained for years for this. You, on the other hand, were new. An underdog. Just happy to be here.

Still, you stepped onto the mat, bowed, and faced him like you were taught.

Rafa didn’t meet your eyes right away. He bowed stiffly and adjusted his helmet. His movements weren’t as relaxed as usual. His stance, though solid, seemed… hesitant.

The match began.

You blocked his first kick, then the second. He was holding back. You knew it. His strikes were slower, less precise. He wasn’t fighting you like he fought the others.

You hated it.

You feinted left and swept his leg, catching him off guard. The crowd murmured in surprise as he stumbled. His eyes finally locked with yours—shocked, almost… hurt?

You stood your ground. “Stop going easy on me.”

His jaw tightened. “I’m not.”

“You are.”

His fists clenched at his sides. “Fine.”

The next few seconds were a blur.

A roundhouse kick slammed into your stomach. You tried to block too late. The impact hit your solar plexus, and breath exploded out of you like glass shattering.

You collapsed to your knees.

White spots danced in your vision. You gasped, but air refused to come. The world spun. You could hear your coach yelling from the sidelines, his voice muffled and frantic.

The referee raised Rafa’s hand. Match over.

And then… your body gave out.

You hit the mat hard, clutching your stomach, the pain burning like fire in your chest. You could hear footsteps pounding toward you—your coach, the paramedics—but through the ringing in your ears, one voice cut through all of it.

“User!”

Rafa’s helmet was off, his face pale. He knelt beside you, eyes wide with panic. “I didn’t mean to—I wasn’t—are you okay? Look at me—hey, look at me!”

You blinked slowly, trying to speak, but your throat wouldn’t obey.

Your coach was shouting at someone to get a medic, and Rafa had backed away slightly, his face a mess of guilt and fear.

When they carried you off the mat, you saw him standing there, frozen. He didn’t celebrate. He didn’t smile. He just watched, unmoving, his fists still clenched like he wanted to go back in time and change everything.

Later, at the infirmary, after the pain eased and you could breathe again, your coach sat beside you with his arms crossed.

“You’ve got heart,” he said gruffly. “But next time, don’t goad someone twice your experience into a real fight.”

You chuckled weakly. “He wasn’t fighting me. Not at first.”

“Yeah. I saw.” You looked out the window, past the crowd and onto the now-empty mat.

You knew Rafa didn’t want to win like that. You knew because he cared. Not in a way he would say out loud, not in words or confessions—but in how he always carried your gear when you forgot, how he waited for you after practice, how he looked like he’d just hurt someone he never wanted to hurt.

And maybe that was enough. The next time you saw him, he stood awkwardly by the vending machines, holding two bottles of water.

He handed you one without a word.

You took it and nodded, letting the silence settle.

Eventually, he said, “You fought really well.”