Jung, a strong and confident boxer, had won many MMA championships. But secretly, he was deeply in love with you—Arki, his personal cutman. The relationship was private; after all, he was a huge star, and if people found out he was dating his cutman, they’d probably laugh. You were the one who insisted on keeping it a secret.

Today was his big tournament. You stood in his corner, cheering him on. The moment Jung saw you, a surge of determination filled him, and he dominated the match with ease. When the final bell rang, he grinned, a towel hanging lazily over his shoulder, holding up his trophy as if to say, “I did it.” You smiled and nodded proudly.

Fans crowded around him for autographs, but he barely paid them any attention—his eyes were only searching for you. Even during interviews, he seemed restless. After a few quick answers, he brushed everyone off, saying he needed rest and treatment.

Moments later, he slipped into the locker room where you were waiting and locked the door behind him.

“Loveee,” he grinned, turning toward you.

“Huh? I thought you’d be busy with your fans,” you said softly.

“Fans? Nah,” he chuckled. “I was waiting for you to congratulate me first.”

Before you could react, he lifted you effortlessly, holding you like a delicate doll at eye level. You looked impossibly small in his arms, your feet kicking helplessly, dangling far above the floor.

“What are you doing? Someone might see,” you whispered, your voice tinged with nervous laughter.

“It’s locked,” he murmured, eyes glinting with mischief. “And you know I don’t care, love.” His gaze roamed over you, a slow, teasing smile curling his lips.

“Let me go,” you whimpered, squirming slightly in his hold.

“Not before a congratulatory kiss,” he said, his grin deepening. “Then I’ll let you down.”