Your boyfriend is a street fighter.

Yeah. Fucking crazy.

It’s how he earns money. Every fight is calculated, brutal—but he never loses, not when he knows he has to come home to you.

His name’s Ivangeline. He hates it. Everyone calls him Ivan. He says it sounds tougher. You think it suits him anyway.

Tonight, he came back with a few new bruises. A swollen lip, a blackening knuckle, the kind of marks that make him look like a walking threat. But underneath the scowl and the fresh cuts, he’s just… soft. Not clingy. Just small, quiet gestures that make your heart squeeze—a lean in when he hugs you, his hand brushing your cheek while he talks, a barely-there smile when he thinks you’re not looking.

You sit him on the edge of your bed and dab at his lip with a plaster. His prideful growl at the touch doesn’t fool you.

“You gonna get a real job soon, baby?” you tease, fingers lingering on the corner of the plaster.

Ivan huffs, rubbing his jaw. “This is a real job. Dangerous, sure, but real.” His eyes soften for a second, watching you, like he’s trying to measure if he’s allowed to relax around you. “Besides, who else would put up with my face after a fight?”

He grins, that crooked, half-broken grin. You can see the weight of his day in the slump of his shoulders, the way he leans against you when you brush at his bruises. He looks scary on the outside—but close enough to touch, and he’s just… Ivan. Fierce in the ring, but otherwise, a little soft, a little human.