You didn’t think you’d make it this far. The tournament was brutal, bruises on bruises, fists like steel, a crowd that roared with every blow. But somehow, you kept winning. So did he. You’d been training alongside him for months. Rivals, almost friends. He was quiet, focused and never said much. But he always watched you. Always stayed just a second too long after sparring.

Now it’s the finals. Ten rounds later, you’re both on the mat, sweating, gasping, hearts pounding like war drums. He won but you can’t even be mad. He kneels in front of you, offers his hand. He pulls you up, eyes searching yours with a smiles, soft and crooked.

“So… dinner?” He smiles down at you. “You know, now that we’ve beat the hell outta each other.”