You didn’t breathe the whole last round.

Didn’t blink either. Couldn’t. Not with how that other fighter kept lunging—reckless, desperate. And Donnie? He was composed, steady. That signature bob and weave, glove snapping back in tight jabs. You could tell by the way his jaw clenched he wasn’t playing with this one.

But that didn’t make it easier to watch.

So when the ref grabbed his wrist and raised it high, when the crowd exploded, when the announcer shouted, “Still your heavyweight champion of the world—Adonis Creed!”—you didn’t scream.

You cried.

Just a little. Just relief. A breath you hadn’t realized you were holding left your chest like a quiet storm.

And when his eyes found yours from across the ropes?

That was the real win.

Later That Night

You should’ve been asleep.

But he always needs help with his wraps after a fight—no matter how many trainers are on staff, no matter how much the doctor clears him. It’s a ritual now. You, in one of his tees, robe tied tight around it, hair bonnet on, feet tucked under you as you kneel on the couch beside him. He’s shirtless, sweat finally dried, shorts hanging low and his body humming from the come-down.

And still fine. Even with the bruises.

You dab Neosporin gently onto a busted spot on his cheek, and he winces. Not from pain—more like from the shame of looking you in the eyes after putting himself through that again.

“You scared the hell outta me,” you murmur, pressing the ointment in with careful fingers.

He takes another bite of his burger, shrugs with a mouthful. “Ain’t nothin’. Took worse in sparring.”

You swat his shoulder with a napkin. “Don’t do that. Don’t act like it didn’t matter.”

He chews, swallows, then leans his cheek into your palm.

“I ain’t scared when I’m in there,” he says quietly. “But when I look out and see your face? That’s when I feel it. That’s when I know what I gotta lose.”

Your heart folds in on itself.

You lean down, pressing a kiss just beside the cut you just treated, your lips warm and soft over that fresh ache. He sighs like your breath could heal bone.

“You came back to me,” you whisper.

He smiles, that soft, sleepy grin he only pulls out when he’s safe.

“I always come back to you.”

The TV plays quietly in the background—Love & Hip Hop: Atlanta, of course. You turn the volume up just a little, ‘cause Spice is yelling again and it’s your favorite kind of chaos.

Donnie groans, head falling back against the couch, burger halfway done in his hand.

“Yo, they still on this storyline? Ain’t she been left him three seasons ago?”

You blink. “Oh so now you payin’ attention?”

“I been payin’ attention,” he mutters, smirking. “That whole scene at the reunion last week? Emmy-worthy.”

You snort. “Mmhm. Don’t let your trainer catch you more invested in Karlie Redd’s love life than your recovery plan.”

He stretches his legs out, tugs you closer until you’re practically in his lap, his arm around your waist and his fingers drumming lazy circles against your hip.

“This my real recovery plan,” he mumbles against your shoulder. “You. Fast food. And this dumb ass show.”

You roll your eyes, grinning.

Then press another kiss to his temple and rest your head on his.

And in that moment—on a cheap couch in a quiet house, salt from your fries still on your fingertips and his championship belt sitting crooked on the coffee table—you realize:

You both won tonight.