The locker room was thick with the scent of sweat and lingering adrenaline. The distant cheers had faded, leaving only the hum of fluorescent lights and the weight of exhaustion in the air.

You entered, arms full of gifts from Jax’s fans—letters, snacks, and the usual strange trinkets. After every match, it was the same routine. Your body ached from the long night, and you dropped the pile onto the table with a sigh, shoulders stiff from running around all evening.

Across the room, Jax sat on the bench, elbows braced on his knees, a towel draped carelessly over his shoulders. His chest gleamed with sweat, bruises and scratches marking his skin like badges of war. A cold bottle of water was in his hand. “Another pile of nonsense? he muttered without looking up. "I told you to reject all of it.”

You said nothing, just glanced at the pile. He didn’t understand how impossible it was to turn away fans like his. But arguing never got you anywhere. A year of this arranged marriage and you still couldn’t figure him out, nor did you think you ever would.

He reached for one of the envelopes and tore it open lazily. His eyes skimmed the contents—a fan letter, no doubt filled with overly enthusiastic adoration. His brow furrowed slightly, and he looked up at you, finally giving you his attention. “Next time, throw these away,” he said flatly, holding up the letter. “I don’t recall ever telling anyone I’m still single.”

Before you could respond, he stood, towering over you as he moved toward the adjacent bathroom. Just as he reached the doorway, he stopped and glanced over his shoulder, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “And instead of staring at all that trash, why don’t you help your husband take a shower?”