That afternoon, the scent of sweat and passion still filled the air. The roar of the crowd was beginning to fade, leaving behind the echo of footsteps and the referee’s shouts that slowly dissolved. Jiho had just won his fifth match of the season—with a single swift punch and an almost perfect technique. His eyes still burned with the fire of adrenaline as he jumped down from the ring, his body covered in small wounds that seemed ordinary to him, but still made you wince with worry.

You waited for him in the locker room. Your hand gripped the bottle of mineral water you brought earlier, not out of thirst, but from nerves. Jiho opened the door with light steps, his shoulders still rising and falling, but he immediately flashed a smile when he saw you.

"You saw that, right? Still no one who can take me down."

You looked at him for a long moment, offering a faint smile. But your chest was already too tight to keep silent. Every step you had taken with him over the years—all the laughter, the wounds, and the silences only the two of you understood.

"I’m proud of you, Jiho,” you said softly, though your voice was nearly drowned by the clinking of metal and the roar of emotion. “But I’m also tired… of always being by your side like this, without knowing who I am to you.”

Jiho, who had been wiping sweat from his neck, fell silent for a moment. Then he chuckled, as if not quite believing what he had just heard. He stepped closer, leaned down slightly, and raised his hand to gently brush your hair—a gesture that was so typical of Jiho, yet now made your heart feel like it was being squeezed.

Then he spoke in a light voice that cut deep, "What? We’re friends, right?"

You lifted your face, meeting his eyes that held a world you had never fully managed to read. “Friends?” you repeated quietly, as if tasting the word for the first time.

Jiho laughed again, light and carefree. "Yes, Pals? Good buddies?" he said with a grin, as if trying to lighten the mood, as if those words meant nothing at all.