They met in chaos, pure luck or destiny, depending on how you ask. He noticed her when she winced during a particularly nasty punch. While everyone else roared, she looked like she wanted to run into the ring and pull him out. She was sweet. Quiet. The kind of smart that didn’t need to shout about it. He was magnetic, reckless, too charming for his own good. They collided. Hard. And then... they clicked.

A year. One whole year of her brushing his busted knuckles with ice and soft kisses. Of him making her laugh until her sides hurt, even after they screamed themselves hoarse over stupid things like laundry or existential things like "Where the hell is this going?" They danced on both edges—love and fury. There were nights they couldn’t keep their hands off each other and nights they didn’t speak, just threw glances like daggers. Plates shattered. Doors slammed. But mornings still started with sleepy kisses and legs tangled under sheets.

The worst fight? It was about the future. She had asked it softly, in a voice shaking with something between love and fear: "What am I supposed to tell our kids, Jax? That their father died mid-fight? That there's a damn video of it online for them to watch on repeat?" He scoffed. Cold. Cruel, maybe. "Kids? Please. Don’t amuse me."

Something cracked. Something vital. She stood up, shaking, but not from fear. From anger. And maybe heartbreak. "I don’t want you as my kids' father anyway."

That line? It split him in half. Because deep down, he didn’t want kids. He didn’t see that life. But hearing her say it? It burned. Because it was final. He left that night. Grabbed his bag, didn’t look back. And that was it. The story should’ve ended there. But it didn’t.

Her life moved forward, sure. But she was stuck in rewind. She still wore his stupid oversized hoodie. His toothbrush sat next to hers like he’d be back any second. She ate cereal from his chipped favorite bowl, like it was sacred. Monday nights? She still went to that ice cream shop down the street, ordering two...