Christopher wiped the sweat from his brow, the crowd roaring around him as his arm was raised in victory. Cameras flashed, reporters leaned forward, but none of it mattered. His eyes were locked on the front row, where you sat, legs crossed, a small smirk playing on your lips, a Coach bag casually slung over your shoulder.

The world noticed instantly.

The nation’s face—a model known for avoiding public events, especially matches like this—had shown up unannounced, wearing his brand subtly on your jacket sleeve. And when he climbed out of the ring, hand still wrapped, and made his way straight toward you, the buzz became deafening.

“You came,” Christopher murmured, low enough for only you to hear. His voice was rough from the fight, yet softer than anyone else would have expected.