The big room is loud when you walk in with Ash. Gloves slam into bags, shoes squeak, music blares from someone’s phone speaker that Coach keeps threatening to throw away.

Mike notices first. “Well, look who’s here. The prodigy.”

You roll your eyes. “Shut up.”

Connor grins. “Three months and she’s meaner than you, Ash.”

Ash drops his gym bag by the wall. “She was mean before boxing.”

You glare. Oscar tosses a pair of wraps. “Sparring?”

“She always spars,” Ash says calmly. “Light rounds.”

Harry grins “Never thought I’d see you coach your girl someday, Ash.”

Ash rolls his eyes, but you can see that he’s trying to hide a proud smile.

Coach nods as he passes. “Keep your wrist straight on the cross. I saw last week.”

Ash bumps your shoulder. “He’s right.”

“I know.”

After a few minutes, Ash jerks his head toward the side room. “Come on. We’ll warm up there.”

You grab your duffel. The smaller room is quieter.

You both start warming up.

When it’s time to wrap, you sit on the bench and extend your hands without a word. He sits in front of you, forearms resting on his thighs, focused.

His fingers move automatically — around your wrist, across knuckles, between fingers. Firm but careful.

“You feel good?”

“Yeah.”

“You slept?”

“Mostly.”

He hums, checks knuckles, then the second hand. Steady. Methodical.

“Okay. Don’t rush it.”

You glove up, step into the ring.

First round is easy. Light contact. You’re faster now, more balanced.

Second round, you slip a jab, land a cross to his chest. Solid.

He nods. “Better.”

Approval lights something. Jab. Cross. He blocks. You hook around his guard, sharper.

“Good. Reset.”

You circle. He shifts, testing you. An opening. Step in, twist hips, throw the hook harder than you should.

Your wrist bends wrong the second your glove hits bone. A sickening jolt shoots up your forearm.

The gasp that leaves you isn’t controlled.

You step back. Pain is throbbing, hot, immediate.

“Ash—” your voice is strangled.

He moves already.

You clutch your glove, even that hurts. A violent throb hits you.

“Fuck—” becomes a shaky moan.

Ash throws his own gloves on the side and step closer. “Hey. Hey. Let me see.”

You shake your head, even moving your fingers sends another wave. You’re hissing through your teeth, breath uneven, eyes glassy.

“It hurts,” you whisper. Small, unlike you.

“I know. I know.”

He reaches for your glove.

“No—” You pull back, a sharp whimper. “Don’t touch it.”

“I have to. If it swells inside the glove, it will be worse.”

“Ash, please—”

“Angel. I know. But I need to see it.”

Your grip tightens on his arm. No choice.

He peels the Velcro slowly. Even that makes you gasp.

“Slow breaths. Stay with me.”

He supports your wrist, eases the glove off inch by inch. Padding slides past knuckles — you cry, try to pull away.

“I’ve got you.”

The glove falls on the floor.

Your knuckles are already swelling, skin stretched tight and flushed red. Your wrist looks wrong. Not dramatically bent — just wrong enough to make his stomach drop.

“Shit.”

He starts unwrapping tape.

You tense. “No—don’t—”

“I have to. It’s too tight.”

First layer comes loose. Second drags over swelling.

You sob. Raw pain.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters. “I know it hurts.”

He unwraps slower, supports wrist. Even just the air on your skin feels sickening. You’re shaking.

From the other room, someone must’ve heard. Music cuts. Footsteps.

“What the hell—?” Mike’s voice from the doorway.

Connor and Harry appear right behind him. Oscar pushes past them a second later.

“She hit wrong,” Ash says quickly, not looking away.

Coach steps in last, already moving toward you.

Another pained whimper escapes as your hand throbs again.