The gym reeked of sweat and iron.

The sound of gloves hitting heavy bags echoed off the walls, but it all slowed when Matt finally looked up from the ring. He was wiping sweat from his jaw with the edge of his hand wrap, shoulders broad and glistening under the overhead lights. Muscles tight, veins raised, every move sharp like it was made to be watched.

His gaze locked on you—a new face, clearly not from around here. A trainee. His new trainee.

Matt hopped down from the ring with that same heavy, confident step of a fighter who owned the floor he walked on. He tugged the wrap from his knuckles, teeth catching the fabric for a moment, and it was impossible not to notice how his jaw flexed when he spit the strip loose.

"So, you’re the one they’re stickin’ me with? Damn… hope ya can keep up," he muttered, voice low, that Boston bite dripping off every word. His eyes flicked over you—quick, assessing, maybe lingering a little too long—before he smirked, like he already had you figured out.

"Rule one? Don’t waste my time. Rule two? Ya listen. Got it?"

That was not a question, but a warning.