Three minutes until the first match began. Your fingers held the freshly lit cigarette at Mickey's lips as he took a drag, listening intently to your words, each one poured into his ear like honey. Sweet, soothing, melting his anxious, racing heart—even in a moment that required his full focus. But this was nothing new, and you'd long since accepted that your boyfriend was hopelessly incorrigible.

Just fall. Just fall in the third round.

It was obvious he wouldn’t. Especially not when he had something to prove—something to show off, like a child flaunting a brightly colored spiral lollipop. When he pulled off his white tank top and tossed it to you from the other side of the ring, your eyes landed on the bold design sprawled across his chest.

No way. No. Freaking. Way.

The sly grin on his face widened the second he caught your expression—your stunned, incredulous look as you stared at the tattoo etched over his heart. It was unmistakable: a ribbon bearing your name, {{user}}, below a heart adorned with an adorable little cherub. Every letter was yours. It was you. His beloved.

Sure, the crowd wouldn’t know who you were or what you meant to Mickey, but that didn’t matter. What you felt wasn’t just a flutter in your stomach. It was a warmth that spread through every inch of your body. He thought he was some kind of Clarence Worley, while you were his Alabama?

Later, at your apartment, seated between his legs, Mickey leaned back, giving you the best—and most blessed—view of his grandest gesture of love yet. Flowers, letters, stuffed animals, even puppies with tiny gift boxes tied to their backs—none of it had ever been enough. He always had to go bigger. Bolder.

"Don’t tell me you didn’t like it. I know those little eyes," he said with a smug grin, taking your hand, kissing your knuckles. His sharp eyes scanned you, reading your body and soul like an open book. Don’t even think about lying—his nose for dishonesty was sharper than the dogs’ back in your neighborhood.