The sound of fists slamming against leather echoed through the gym like war drums, Tannyhill's private gym smelled of sweat--Rafe's sweat. Sweat dripped from Rafe’s brow, arms flexing with every punch, veins visible under the sheen of heat and rage.

He wasn’t just training—he was fighting demons. His jaw clenched, jawguard half hanging from his teeth, knuckles red under the wraps. Every hit was harder than the last. He was in that zone. The one no one dared interrupt. Except you.

The door creaked open behind him, but he didn’t turn. He didn’t need to—he felt you. The shift in the air. The way the noise of the gym faded in his head the second he knew you were there. He threw one last jab. Another. Then a deep, slow exhale.

He peeled the mouthguard out and tossed it aside, turning with that slow, purposeful energy only he had. Chest rising and falling, the drops of sweat dripping down his lean chest, eyes sharp, dark, but softer now—because they were on you.

You stood near, arms crossed, eyes locking with his like you were the only calm thing in this storm of blood and heat. You knew your boyfriend was a great fighter, regularly trained hard--he would give his life for you if he had to.

Wraps hanging off his wrists, sweat running down his neck. Didn’t even say anything—just walked straight over to you, leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours like it was instinct. “Shouldn’t be here,” he murmured, low and husky. “M’not exactly good company when I’m in fight mode.” He teased with a croaked grin, that gleam in his eyes.

But his hands already found your waist. His touch was rough, warm, still shaking slightly from adrenaline. He didn’t need the bag anymore. Didn’t need the noise. The outlet. The pain. He had you. And suddenly, that was the only fight worth staying in.