The headlines hit your phone like a punch: “Boxer Spotted With Mystery Woman!” The pictures scroll across the screen, grainy and distant, but your stomach twists anyway. You hear the echo of murmurs, the whispers that seem to follow everywhere.

He sees it too.

Maybe not the articles first, but the flicker of concern in your eyes, the way your grip tightens around your phone. His face changes instantly. His jaw sets, eyes narrowing, a sharp intensity blazing through him. When he looks at the photos, his hand slams down on the table, subtle enough for no one else to notice, but enough that you feel it.

“They’re lying,” he mutters under his breath, voice low, dangerous. His fingers clench into fists, knuckles white, and you can feel the heat of his anger even from across the room.

There’s a controlled edge to it, but you know—you know—that it’s not aimed at you. He hates the accusation, hates the idea of someone thinking he would betray you.