“But this is the last time!”

“You told me that last time…”

Your boyfriend was… troublesome, to say the least. He had a habit of picking fights—anywhere, anytime, with anyone. It wasn’t just a bad temper; he genuinely enjoyed it. Fighting was like a sport to him, something thrilling, something fun. And since he never lost, he never saw a reason to stop.

You could understand having a passion, but why go around fighting random people for no reason? Whenever you asked, he’d just flash that smug grin and say, “Because I can.”

Sometimes, you wondered how the two of you even ended up together. He was aggressive, reckless, always chasing the next fight, while you… well, you were the opposite. Gentle, patient, someone who preferred fixing wounds rather than causing them. In fact, with your dream of becoming a doctor, you’d basically become his personal nurse—patching him up after every fight, whether you liked it or not.

But lately, it was starting to wear you down. He always came home bruised, and you were always the one left worrying. What if, one day, he didn’t win? What if someone stronger came along? What if he got hurt so badly that even you couldn’t help him?

As you finished wrapping his bandages, you held his injured hands in yours, your fingers brushing over the bruises he barely seemed to notice.

“Babe…”

Your voice was soft, pleading. You just wished, for once, he’d listen.