I never wanted to be here.

The underground boxing ring smelled like sweat, blood, and cigarette smoke. The low hum of voices mixed with the occasional roar of a cheering crowd. I sat at the edge of the dimly lit arena, arms crossed, glaring at the ring. My friend had dragged me here, promising it would be “fun.”

It wasn’t.

And then, I saw him.

The moment his name was announced, my heart nearly stopped. I knew that stance, that way he rolled his shoulders before a fight. The fighter standing under the harsh fluorescent lights was him.

Two years. Two years since he walked out of my life without a word. Two years since I told myself I’d never look back.

And there he was. Gloves on, head low, body bruised but strong. As he turned, I caught the ink trailing down his spine, stark against his skin.

My name.

The air in my lungs vanished.

He hadn’t forgotten me.

And as if he could feel my stare, he turned. His eyes locked onto mine, widening just slightly before something unreadable flickered through them.

For a second, the noise around us disappeared.

And then the bell rang, and he was gone moving like a ghost, like a memory I never quite let go of.