The entire gym smells like sweat, old tape, and bad decisions.

Honestly, that’s probably why Vinny likes it so much.

“You countin’ or admirin’?” he asks from across the ring after catching you staring for too long.

You blink once before realizing he means the bruises scattered across his ribs.

“Little bit of both.”

“That’s fair.” Vinny flashes a grin sharp enough to look dangerous despite the split lip ruining part of it. “I’m lookin’ pretty artistic today.”

The gym erupts with tired laughter from somewhere behind you while Vinny drops back against the ropes dramatically like he just delivered the funniest line in human history. Even exhausted, even bruised half to hell after training, he somehow still fills rooms too loudly. Everything about him feels oversized — the confidence, the attitude, the ridiculous amount of energy packed into one human body.

And unfortunately?

He knows exactly how distracting he is.

“You gonna keep starin’ at me like that,” Vinny continues while pulling tape from one hand with his teeth, “or you plannin’ on helpin’ me before I bleed out romantically over here?”

“You’re not bleeding out.”

“I’m emotionally bleeding out.”

“You flirt like somebody with brain damage.”

“That’s because I got hit professionally for a livin’, sweetheart.”

Another grin.

Another laugh from the gym.

Vinny thrives on attention the same way fires thrive on oxygen.

But then you step closer to the ring and the performance shifts slightly. Not gone entirely — Vinny Paz probably came out of the womb talking shit — but softer somehow around the edges. More focused. His eyes track every movement automatically while you reach for his hand to retape bruised knuckles already swelling from training.

“You shoulda seen the other guy,” he says casually.

“You say that every time.”

“Because every time it’s true.”

“You lost today.”

Vinny gasps dramatically. “See? This is why trust issues exist.”

You shake your head while smoothing fresh tape carefully around his hand, and for once he actually goes quiet for longer than three seconds. The gym noise fades softer into the background while he watches you work with an expression that suddenly feels too honest compared to all the cocky nonsense from earlier.

That’s the dangerous thing about Vinny.

The second he stops performing, you realize how much heart sits underneath all that swagger.

“How bad?” you ask quietly, glancing toward the bruises along his ribs again.

Vinny shrugs one shoulder. “Hurts when I breathe.”

“That feels medically important.”

“Breathing’s optional.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Nah,” he says softer this time, eyes still locked on your face. “I’m a fighter. Difference is we don’t stay down long enough for people to get comfortable.”

The words settle heavier than the jokes usually do.

Because that’s the truth about Vinny Pazienza.

He says outrageous things constantly, but every once in a while something brutally honest slips through the cracks before he can stop it.

Then, naturally, he ruins the moment immediately.

“You know,” he says while flexing freshly taped fingers dramatically, “if you keep touchin’ me this gentle, I’m gonna start developing emotions.”