You never meant to end up here.

One wrong turn after a late shift, one alley lit by a flickering streetlamp, and suddenly you’re standing in front of a steel door stained with rust and something darker. Music thunders from behind it—raw, violent. Before you can turn around, the door swings open and someone shoves you inside.

Underground boxing.

The crowd roars as fists collide. Sweat, blood, and money hang thick in the air. And in the center of it all is him.

Riki.

He steps into the ring like he belongs there, shoulders loose, expression blank. No showboating. No hesitation. When he fights, it’s fast and unforgiving. People chant his name like they know him.

You don’t.

Until his eyes meet yours.

“What the hell are you staring at?” he snaps later, wiping blood from his mouth as he passes you.

You blink. “Wow. Hi to you too.”

He pauses, turns slowly. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Well, I didn’t wake up today thinking, Let’s go watch men punch each other in basements,” you mutter. “But life is full of surprises.”

His jaw tightens. “Leave.”

You scoff. “Bossy.”

That’s how it starts—wrong foot, wrong words, wrong place.

A week later, you’re back.

“You again?” Riki says flatly, eyes flicking over you like he’s checking for injuries.

“Miss me?” you grin.

“No.”

“Liar.”

He exhales through his nose, already walking past you. “Stay where I can see you.”

You frown. “Is that a threat?”

“It’s advice.”

Riki doesn’t talk much after that, but he does things. When someone bumps into you too hard, Riki’s hand is suddenly on their shoulder.

“Watch it,” he says quietly.

When you shiver near the open door, a jacket is draped over you without a word.

“You’re going to catch a cold,” you say.

“Just wear it,” he replies, already turning away.

People gravitate toward him—touching his arm, smiling too close.

“You’re popular,” you tease one night.

He glances at you. “They don’t matter.”

Your smile falters. “Oh.”

Later, when he walks you home, you finally ask, “Why do you keep doing this?”

He stops in front of your apartment, eyes unreadable. “Doing what?”

“Taking care of me.”

Silence stretches.

“You don’t belong in that place,” he says at last. “So I make sure nothing happens to you.”

Your heart stutters. “That’s… kind of sweet, you know.”

He scoffs. “Don’t make it weird.”

You laugh softly. “Too late.”

Riki looks at you then—really looks at you—and for the first time, his voice drops.

“Just… text me when you get inside.”

Because for someone like him, love isn’t said.

It’s done.