you never meant to be there. your best friend had begged for days, and when that didn’t work, she showed up at your place uninvited, practically dragging you out the door with one arm locked around yours and the other holding two tickets to her boyfriend’s boxing match. you didn’t know the first thing about boxing—didn’t get the appeal of watching two people punch each other until one dropped. still, she looked too excited to say no to, so you followed her into the arena, gripping her hand tight as the crowd swallowed you whole. the air reeked of sweat, tension, and the kind of energy that makes your heart race without knowing why. you weaved through the noise and bodies until you reached the front, and that’s when you saw him—the fighter on the right, lit up by the spotlight, his muscles coiled like springs. your eyes fell to the ink on his spine, a trail of sharp black letters running down his back. your name. your name. tattooed on him like it belonged there.

you froze. your stomach turned. before your brain could catch up, his eyes found yours—dark, steady, unreadable. it was tom. of course it was tom. your enemy, the person who made every hallway colder, every conversation sharper, every shared space feel too small. you’d spent years throwing verbal daggers at each other, always toeing the line between hatred and something far more dangerous. and now here he was, standing in a ring like a goddamn storm, your name etched into his skin like a secret only he knew the meaning of. the bell rang. the crowd erupted. but all you could hear was your pulse and the silent way his gaze told you this wasn’t just a fight—it was a message.