#fighter!noah au

whoever had locked up tonight should’ve turned off all the lights. so, when you walk into the gym and they’re still very much on, you’re instinctively gripping your keys between your knuckles, just in case you’re not alone.

what you do not expect is to be greeted by the soft, sleeping form you catch in a moment of vulnerability, illuminated by the harsh, near-blinding glow of the gym’s fluorescent lighting through the crack of the locker room door as you open it. his face is partially obscured by the hoodie drawn over his head, but you can discern glimpses of the man underneath it — the soft pout of his lips, long lashes casting shadows on his cheeks… he looks peaceful.

you’re sure that a six foot-three, wholly tatted-up brunette usually cuts an intimidating figure. however, normally sharp features soften in sleep, his brown locks falling messily over his forehead. something about the way he’s hunched awkwardly on a bench that doesn’t quite fit his frame, arms hugging his duffle as he rests his head on it like a makeshift pillow, is reminiscent of a long-since grown puppy, still trying to fit places it doesn’t belong. 

there’s something oddly endearing about the juxtaposition of his imposing tattoos and his slightly comical struggle with the inadequate bench size, and the sight tugs unexpectedly hard at your heartstrings as the sinking feeling that he likely wouldn’t be here if he had anywhere else to go settles in.

if it were up to you, you’d let him sleep. judging by the bags under his eyes as you edge closer, he hasn’t been getting much of it. but if he’s still here in the morning, well… your boss won’t exactly take kindly to trespassing. 

you flick the light switch on as you clear your throat and speak up. “you’re not allowed to be here after hours.”

the brunette blinks at you blearily before seemingly realizing where he is. “shit.” he sits up looking panicked, dislodging his hood as he runs a hand through his hair and over his face. 

no one should look that good upon waking up. a few days of stubble, sleep lines etched on his face and he’s disarmingly handsome. it’s the sort of disheveled charm that has you warding off unhinged thoughts like wishing you were the reason for his lack of sleep. 

you hate yourself for even thinking it. he’s obviously going through a rough patch if this is the only place he can think to spend the night. 

how did he even get in here? 

he didn’t break in, that much you know. he must’ve waited until closing and then snuck off somehow. god, he’s lucky you’re the one who found him.

“please don’t call the cops. I’ll go.” he stands up, already throwing his bag over his shoulder. a bag that seems alarmingly light for carrying what you guess is probably all of his possessions. “I’m going.” 

“where?” you challenge, not knowing what possesses you to ask.

he stills at the question, surprised, maybe? and you wonder briefly where he’s been that no one’s ever cared to ask. that he’s so used to his hardships going ignored, to no one caring.

“I dunno,” he shakes his head, already moving to walk past you into the main area of the gym and towards the entrance. “I’ll figure it out. I always figure it out.” 

his casual assurance masks a weary acceptance, and the words ring with a finality that makes you realize this is a person who has become accustomed to the harsh realities of life. so much so that the look on his face is one of indifference, as if it’s not the first time he’s found himself in a difficult situation and it won’t be the last. 

a look of genuine concern crosses your features at his answer, his nonchalance hitting you harder than it should. as he stands facing you, head cocked to one side, you can’t help but be drawn to him, like a lost puppy you know you shouldn’t adopt but can’t bring yourself to reject either. he looks at you, waiting expectantly for you to dismiss him, to usher him out those doors and get on with whatever it is you came here for. 

so you can imagine his surprise when you don’t.

“this neighborhood… it’s not the safest.” your expression softens. “you can crash on my couch,” you offer. “it’s not a pull out, but it might be a little more comfortable than a cold metal bench.” 

“you’d give a total stranger access to your apartment,” he deadpans, as if judging you for your lack of caution. like you’re crazy. 

maybe you are. 

you huff. “you know, I’m pretty sure anyone else in your position wouldn’t be trying to talk me out of it right now.”

“I just–you don’t know me.”

“that’s what the word ‘stranger’ means, yes.” his eyebrows quirk upward in amusement at your sarcastic remark. “what’s your name?” 

his hesitance melts away ever so slightly. “Noah,” he says.

“well, then you’re not a stranger,” you shrug and give him yours in return. 

a small glimmer of something close to a smile graces his lips, the faintest curve at the corners, a fleeting sign that he wants to trust you. the tension in his shoulders seems to relax a fraction, the defensiveness in his stance ebbing slightly. as you shrug off the unfamiliarity as if it were inconsequential, he feels a surge of hesitant gratitude and a whisper of hope deep within him.

“don’t get too excited. it’s only a step above broom closet,” you warn. “we’ll practically be on top of each other.” 

your cheeks tinge pink as realization of the double entendre sinks in. 

you’re suddenly unable to think of anything else and certainly not to meet his eyes, but if he notices your sudden silence, he doesn’t say anything. he just steps out of the doors ahead of you, hovering at your back while you lock up, the gym now quiet and dark aside from the few emergency lights.

“you the owner?”

“like I could afford this place. I wish,” you chuckle dryly, giving a light shake of your head.

“I just thought–you usually come here this late?”

you adjust your gym bag on your shoulder. “when I have some steam to work off.” you flush again. you: 0. universe: 2. yeah, you’re doing great. “anyway, unlike you, I’m actually allowed to be here after hours. I work here. you’re the one who was trespassing.”

Noah chuckles lightly. “fair point,” he admits.

the cool night air wraps around you gently as you begin to walk together, and you’re so immersed in your own little bubble that the rest of the city seems quiet for once. 

his gaze lingers on you as if he’s considering something before he speaks again. “do you always offer your couch to strangers who sleep in your gym?” he teases.

“believe it or not, you’re the first.” 

“ah, so I’m special,” he jokes playfully. 

despite the lack of sleep and his tired appearance, there’s a boyish charm to his demeanor as he walks beside you — his gait relaxed and easy. unbeknownst to you, he takes deliberately smaller steps with his long legs to match your strides.

“contrary to popular belief, this is not an everyday occurrence.”

“less special.” 

the streetlights cast a glow around you, the night’s shadows playing across his features, accentuating the defined angles of his face and the soft curve of his mouth as his teasing smile grows.

“do you usually go all protective Rottweiler on women you’ve just met? don’t think I haven’t noticed you edging me onto the sidewalk.”

sure enough, he has, slowly but surely, been crowding into your personal space to nudge you onto the sidewalk from your right side. a strangely protective act for someone you’ve just met that has you feeling weirdly fuzzy inside.

he looks a bit sheepish, a light blush dusting his cheeks as his eyes avoid yours. “force of habit,” he mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. a hint of bashfulness clings to his words. “I take care of people who take care of me.” he looks back at you. “plus, a little birdie told me this isn’t the safest neighborhood.”

a smile pulls at your lips. “a little birdie, huh?” you repeat softly.

as you continue to walk, you are acutely aware of his proximity, of the way he seems to subconsciously gravitate toward you, edging closer to create a subtle barrier between you and the surrounding night. it’s sweet the way he angles his body towards you almost defensively. 

“where’s your car?”

“actually, I usually walk the few blocks to my apartment,” you admit sheepishly, knowing that might make you a hypocrite. 

he turns to you with a look of surprise, stopping in his tracks. “you walk?” he repeats. he scrutinizes you for a few seconds. “alone, at night?” he asks, his gaze flickering over you as if mentally assessing how safe you are.

you shrug. “I’m walking blocks either way. the only difference is whether it’s to my apartment or to my car. parking is hard to find. at least walking home it’s a route I’m always familiar with. I’ve survived thus far.” you nudge his shoulder. “and anyway, I’m not alone tonight.” 

“no, I guess not.” he shivers slightly, more at the realization of how close you are than because of the chill. he makes no move to distance himself though, his pace easily matching yours once again. the sound of your footsteps, now in synchrony, echoes softly as the next few blocks pass in comfortable silence until you arrive at your apartment complex. 

“this is me,” you point and duck into the parking lot. it’s not glamorous in the least, in fact, the surrounding area leaves much to be desired, but you have a place. it’s yours, and you’re proud of that. he understands the importance of having a place to call your own, probably better than anyone. 

as you lead Noah towards your building, he discreetly takes everything in. the mismatched paint job on the exterior. gaping cracks in the brickwork from years of neglect. some windows that’ve been boarded up shoddily. 

a ghostly pale face peeps out from behind a curtain on the top floor and Noah shadows you closer. though he doesn’t make any comments, you can practically hear the gears turning in his mind. you’re certain he’s not judging you or your living situation, but that protectiveness seems to flare up again. he looks around as if trying to gauge the safety of the complex.

your eyes catch on a used condom on the ground, a needle not much further away, and you know Noah sees it too. you’re suddenly increasingly self-conscious.

you know how it looks, but you just make your way to the door, Noah following along behind you. you fumble for your phone flashlight — it’s pitch black — and the power’s out in the common area; it has been for weeks, so you don’t even need your key fob. without electricity, the door’s unlocked, something that Noah notices almost immediately and doesn’t like. 

maintenance isn’t exactly on top of all the repairs around here, and there are a lot of things that need fixing. your AC for one.

you climb the three flights of stairs to your floor and practically fall inside once you unlock the door to your apartment. once you flick on the light switch, a modest space comes into view, neat and tidy, but clearly lived in. it’s small — the kitchen and living room right as you walk in, a bathroom in the hall that’s connected to your bedroom at the end of it — but it’s all you really need. 

behind you, Noah lets out a low whistle of appreciation. “not bad,” he comments, making his way further inside.

“yeah, uh, make yourself at home,” you gesture a sweeping hand around the room. “sorry, the AC’s broken, but it’s still early in the summer so it’s cool enough. the couch is all yours, and there are blankets in that basket,” you point. “I’ll grab you a pillow.”

“thanks,” he murmurs, sinking onto the couch. he watches as you open windows, taking everything in — your habits, your apartment, you — with an odd sense of domesticity. there’s a certain charm to the place regardless of the surroundings, a glimpse of your life within these walls. 

his heart warms at the way you so easily welcome him into your space, almost like he’s always been a part of it.

after snatching one of the many pillows from your bed, you toss it to Noah. “I’ll let you settle in. we can talk more tomorrow, okay, so don’t go anywhere.”

he chuckles and catches the pillow you throw at him, holding it with a small grin on his lips as he looks at you. “no worries,” he murmurs, “not like I have anywhere else to be.” 

he doesn’t say it out of self-pity, it’s simply a fact. 

something deep inside you twists painfully. “goodnight, Noah.”

there’s a brief moment of silence as you bid him goodnight, the apartment growing quiet around you. Noah’s eyes linger for a few seconds on the closed door of your bedroom, a soft, almost imperceptible sigh escaping his lips. “goodnight,” he finally replies, his voice a mere whisper. the tiredness he feels weighs heavy on him as he stretches out on the couch, eyes falling shut.

・❥・

when you wander into the kitchen, it’s clear Noah’s already been up for a while. he’s clean shaven, freshly showered and annoyingly attractive with his hair damp and falling in strands over his eyes. 

the minute you enter, he greets you with a warm smile and holds out a mug, the smell of freshly brewed coffee filling the air. he watches you with amusement and something else, something almost fond, in his eyes. 

you’re cute when you’ve just woken up.

“morning,” he gestures to the coffeepot. “how do you like your coffee? or do you prefer tea?”

your head is still slightly fuzzy from sleep, the sight of him making the thoughts in your mind sluggish. “I take it you’re a morning person?” you grumble.

you grab your favorite creamer from the fridge and hold it up, still moving slowly. you can almost visibly see Noah taking a note of it to set aside for later, and it’s too adorable to be confronted with this early in the morning. 

he shrugs. “depends on the day.” he leans against the counter, holding his own cup of coffee. the morning sunlight streams in from the window, illuminating his face.

“I like both.” you finally answer his question, then nod towards his bag by the door. “thought you said you weren’t going anywhere.”

his eyes glance at the duffle before returning to you, his expression becoming somewhat guarded. “yeah, well,” he mumbles, rubbing his neck. his shoulders tense almost imperceptibly, betraying his discomfort at feeling like an imposed guest. “better to be prepared, right?” 

there’s an edge to his voice that’s hard to miss, defensiveness and uncertainty. for someone who seems as self-assured as him, there’s a hint of fragility beneath his exterior, a reluctance to accept help too easily. he’s used to having to fend for himself, not having to rely on anyone. it’s easier that way. the thought of being a burden… he’d sooner be out on his own. “I just–” he stops himself, sighing deeply before continuing, “I don’t want to overstay my welcome.”

“you’ve only been here for one night,” you say softly.

the way you speak, so nonchalantly stating the obvious like it’s nothing, makes his breath catch in his throat. he’s so unused to such casual kindness, it throws him off guard. “yeah, I know,” he mumbles, staring at the floor as he runs a hand through his hair. “but still.” he pauses, clearly wrestling with his thoughts, the next words leaving his lips hesitantly. “I don’t want to take advantage of your hospitality.” 

“the fact that you’re so conscious of not taking advantage is the exact reason you’re not going to.” you level a reassuring smile at him.

it’s the way you say it, so matter of fact and sincere that makes his defenses crumble, if only slightly. he lets out a soft exhale, his shoulders relaxing as he leans against the counter. “you make it sound so simple,” he mutters, smiling self-deprecatingly.

“do you ever let anyone take care of you, Noah?” you ask, and he feels as if he must be totally laid bare before you to appear so transparent, for you to somehow read him as easily as you do. like a book you’ve read front to back so many times you have the contents memorized.

your question seems to hit a nerve, his eyes widening a fraction before narrowing as he looks at you. somehow you seem to see right through him. he swallows the lump in his throat, trying to maintain his composure, but your words leave him feeling unusually vulnerable. “I–” he pauses, looking away as if to collect his thoughts. after a beat, he forces a scoff, “I take care of myself just fine.”

in truth, the answer is ‘no.’ he doesn’t let people in, doesn’t let them get too close, and the thought of letting someone take care of him makes something uncomfortable and unfamiliar twist in his chest. 

“I just think maybe it’d be worth asking yourself why it’s so easy for you to take care of other people and not to let them take care of you,” you say, referencing how readily he’s already assigned himself to looking after you. 

Noah gets the distinct feeling that this is something you could only recognize in him if you saw it in yourself first, although it baffles him how easily you could pick up on it after spending all of under twenty-four hours together. is he that easy to read?

the way you’re looking at him, seeing past the armor he’s built around himself makes him feel strangely exposed. your words cut him deep, peeling back his defensive layers like they’re nothing but tissue paper. all his defenses want to rear back up, protect him from the truth of it.

he tries to brush it aside, maybe he could deflect with another scoff or witty remark, but the knowing look in your eyes keeps him quiet. he shifts his weight, his fingers wrapping tightly around the coffee cup as if seeking comfort from the warmth it emits. 

suddenly, he feels like that sad, confused kid again. he opens his mouth to speak but no words come out. his eyes dart away, unwilling to meet yours. 

sensing his discomfort, you change the subject. “tell me what happened to your hand.” 

your fingers brush lightly over his bruised knuckles, and he knows he has to tell you that he’s a fighter. that it’s the reason he was sleeping on that locker room bench. that he’s in trouble and he’s in debt and he can’t take on any more debt than he’s already accrued, least of all when he doesn’t know how to pay back your kindness. it’s a currency he doesn’t understand and can’t afford.

your gentle touch against his hand makes him tense, a shiver running through him that he can’t hide. for a moment he’s torn between wanting to pull away and wanting to lean into the touch, the gesture so unexpectedly intimate that it leaves him feeling raw. he instinctively pulls his hand away, the muscles in his jaw clenching as he shifts his gaze to the floor. the lump in his throat grows heavier with each passing second.

he knows he has to tell you the truth, but the thought of revealing his messy, complicated life makes him want to run. his mind races.

should he lie? 

tell the truth? 

what would you think of him if you knew who he really was?

“it’s nothing,” he mumbles, the words leaving his lips like a reflex. but he knows he’s lying, and he knows you can see right through him. he hates this, feeling so transparent, so exposed. with a heavy sigh, he looks back up at you. his mind fumbles, searching for a lie or an easier explanation, something to brush it off as insignificant, but something in the way you ask makes him feel you deserve the truth. “I… I got into a fight.”

you raise your eyebrows. “hell of a fight,” you say, as if coaxing him to reveal more. “you get into ‘fights’ often?” 

the way you say it lets him know you can clearly read between the lines, but your expression is devoid of the judgment or disapproval he expected.

“more often than I’d like,” he says with a sigh. he doesn’t know why he feels the need to reveal this part of himself to you, but some part of him knows you’d see through any lies, anyway.

“so why do you do it?” you ask. 

because I’m in debt. because I made the stupid decision to get involved with these people when I was too young to know any better.

because he doesn’t have a choice. 

he owes some dangerous people a lot of money, and he might as well have signed his soul away with his underground fighting contract. they take his earnings with every win, but somehow, it never feels as if he’s any closer to paying it off. and since his manager quit, he feels a lot like he’s in over his head.

“you always ask such tough questions?” he mutters, running a hand over his forehead.

he lets out a bitter laugh, the sound lacking any humor. “sometimes you don’t have a choice,” he says, his voice tinged with cynicism. he pauses, swallowing hard before continuing. “I owe some people a lot of money. this,” he gestures to his bruised knuckles, “is how I pay.”

“they take your winnings,” you murmur, understanding.

“every single cent,” he confirms, his tone resigned. “it’s a debt I can’t seem to pay off, no matter how many fights I win.” 

he’d signed a deal with the devil when he was younger, desperate for fame and fortune, and now he’s paying the price in more ways than one. 

“and then with my manager bailing on me… well… just add that to the list of my shitty luck,” he mutters, his jaw clenching in frustration. “now I’m in way over my head. he was the only one managing the logistics. who knew who to contact when, how much I still owed, that sort of thing. he scheduled all my fights.”

he laughs bitterly. “now it’s like I’m drowning with no one to throw me a damn lifeline.”

a twinge of sympathy echoes through your gut. you know you have to help. 

“what if I could throw you one?” you ask, and you say a combination of words you’d promised yourself you never would again: “what if I could take over as your manager?”

his eyes widen in surprise, taken aback by your unexpected offer. “you–you don’t even know what you’re getting into,” he protests. the last thing he wants is to implicate you in the mess he’s found himself in.

“I… have some connections,” you swallow around the knot in your throat. “I used to manage full time. you fight in the Concrete Underground, yeah?” 

an easy enough assumption considering they’ve shut down all major competition.

he cocks his eyebrow at your words, curiosity in his eyes. “yeah,” he says slowly, surprised, “I fight in the Concrete Underground. how–” he stops, finally fully processing your words. “wait, you used to manage fighters?”

“yeah, and I don’t anymore,” you push down all the memories trying to resurface that you’d rather forget, “so if I do this for you, I have one condition and it’s that you stay.”

a thousand thoughts swirl through his mind as the implications of your condition settle on him like a heavy blanket. “you’re serious,” he mutters, his eyes searching yours. he sees no deception, only determination. “you want me to stay?” he asks softly, his tone laced with a touch of disbelief. 

conflicting emotions war within him. on the one hand, the possibility of having someone actually in his corner, someone who understands… it would be a refreshing change. but on the other hand, to put yourself at risk… why would you do this for him?

why would you offer to step into the dangerous world of underground fighting? especially when you say you’ve left that world behind. 

the question echoes in his mind, a constant voice reminding him that he isn’t worth the effort. he’s a fighter, a screwup, a man who has more demons than good habits. why would a smart, capable woman like you want to help him? a virtual stranger?

“why... why would you do this for me?”

“I want to help you get out,” you say. 

he needs someone looking out for him, and you’re no stranger to how the industry works. if it’s not you, it’ll be somebody else managing him, someone under their thumb. you can manage his fights, keep him safe. make sure they’re easy wins, good money. you’ll make sure all his earnings result in a write off of his debt.

you don’t really want to get into all the personal reasons, everything that went down with your last fighter to make you quit, even if it is a big reason why you want to do this for Noah.

you wanted to help. the word feels foreign to him, a concept he hasn’t grappled with in a long time. 

he’s grown so used to being on his own, to fighting his own battles, but there’s something in your eyes, a look that he can’t quite decipher. something that makes him believe you mean every word.

his usual detachment falters as he’s rendered speechless because no one has ever offered this, not really. everyone else is either using him or looking out for themselves, but here you are, ready to dive into the underground world with him in spite of the danger.

as he slowly processes your words, he can scarcely believe it. you’d volunteer your experience in the industry and your determination to get him out. he has to admit, it’s tempting...

he can sense there might be a layer of history there you aren’t keen on delving into, but underneath it all is a sincerity that is genuine. you want to help him escape the brutal cycle he’s trapped in, and if all you want is for him to stay off the streets… he’ll stay.

“so you know what you’re getting into?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” you shrug. “I have some ground rules… and by that, I mean I have one, and it’s to trust me. that also means you’re gonna have to listen to me a decent amount of the time,” you smirk. “think you can handle that?”

a scoff of wry amusement leaves him, and he can’t help but crack a small smile at your comment. he raises an eyebrow, his tone laced with sarcasm. “oh, so now you’re gonna tell me what to do?”

“admit it,” you tease, “you’re into it.”

he can’t help the bark of laughter that escapes him. “you’re pretty damn bossy, you know that?” a smirk plays on his face.

“so I’ve been told,” you hum, turning to more serious topics. “when was your last fight?”

he shifts slightly, the memory of his last fight still fresh in his mind. it had been a week ago, and he had won, but the victory felt hollow considering how little it paid off.

“a week ago,” he says with a grimace, “I won, but like always, it barely made a dent in what I owe.”

“how often did they have you scheduled on the circuit?” you ask, knowing you’re not going to like the answer, not in an industry that cares very little for its athletes and a lot for its pockets.

he lets out a scoff, his hands clenched into fists. “as often as they wanted,” he says bitterly. “it didn’t matter if I was still recovering from the last fight, or if I was tired or sore. as long as they could make money off of me, they kept me fighting. sometimes multiple times a week if they were feeling particularly sadistic.”

you shake your head. “once a week, max. some training, but otherwise you should be resting. I’m gonna fucking clobber your manager.”

a wave of relief washes over him at your words. the frequency of his fights had been borderline inhumane, the constant strain on his body taking its toll. the thought of having more time to focus on recovery is like a load off his shoulders. and the fact that you’re already going to bat for him, wholeheartedly on his side... well, he can’t deny the flare of gratitude he feels.

“I could kiss you right now,” he blurts out before he can stop himself.

you laugh softly, startled into a flurry of nerves because of the handsome brunette currently staring at you. “yeah, well, it’s too bad I don’t make a habit out of kissing my clients.”

“damn, I missed my chance,” he jokes, a cheeky glint in his eyes. he loves the way you banter with him, matching his energy and firing back with ease. “pity,” he drawls, his tone teasing. “I bet it would’ve been one hell of a kiss.”

“are you always such a flirt?” you ask.

he just smirks slyly as he shrugs, his gaze locked with yours. “maybe you just bring it out in me.”

“you could’ve just said yes,” you laugh again, and the sight tugs at something in his heart. he has the distinct feeling he’s in trouble here. all he can think about is how much he wants to hear it again.

you’re completely oblivious. 

“I’ll want to see your record before I schedule any fights. your old manager probably had it,” you say, “and I think you should meet me at the gym after my shift so I can see you in action. I’m closing.”

“you just want to get me all breathless and sweaty, don’t you?” he says with a grin. “alright, boss lady. I’ll swing by later.”

・❥・

“that’s one hell of a punch.” you come up behind Noah as he’s working with the punching bag. he’s changed into a white t-shirt and pair of black sweatshorts, the latter affording a glimpse of his leg tattoos. “don’t get too comfortable though. there’s always room for improvement. may I?”

he nods. the gym is empty; you have the place to yourselves.

“you’re relying too much on your arms to carry you through when you should be paying more attention to your core. you’re losing power, you’re losing stability, and it’s leaving you open,” you instruct. “you should feel it right here.” your hand presses against his lower abdomen. “I want you to try.” 

with his next hit, his stomach coils tight below your palm, the impact against the bag sharper than before. “better.”

a flicker of satisfaction flashes in his eyes.

he takes well to your coaching, which is a good sign. most fighters have a bit of a stubborn streak. it’s hard to find a healthy balance… confident, not cocky. 

Noah’s surprisingly receptive to your guidance. he listens intently, paying attention to every detail you offer and making adjustments as needed. he picks up on new techniques and corrections quickly, showing a level of humility and willingness to learn that you rarely see in fighters. despite his previous wins, there’s no trace of arrogance in him, just a quiet determination to improve.

“okay, you’re warmed up.” you press a pair of boxing gloves to his chest. “in the ring. we’re gonna spar.”

“you want to spar? with me? you sure you can handle it?” he teases.

“yeah, yeah, okay, hotshot. let’s see what you’ve got.”

“don’t say I didn’t warn you.” he levels a dazzling smile at you, both of you stepping over the rope and facing off in the center. “ladies first,” he says as he gestures for you to make the first move.

“how gentlemanly of you,” you quip before swiftly lunging forward, aiming a well-placed jab towards his shoulder. you don’t put a lot of force behind it, just testing his reflexes. seeing how easily he can be put off balance.

he chuckles, his eyes tracking your body language with a sharp intensity. as you lunge forward, he effortlessly steps back, dodging the jab and evading the hit with a grace that contrasts with his build.

he raises an eyebrow, an amused expression on his face. “don’t hold back on my account,” he says with a cocky grin, the casual air belied by the way his muscles tense, preparing for your next move.

“if that had made contact, I’m pretty sure I’d have to withdraw my offer to be your manager.”

a laugh erupts from him, the sound reverberating through the space like a booming echo. “duly noted,” he says. “I’m guessing you won’t be going easy on me then.”

“I’m just trying to feel you out. I’m observing you, remember?” this is your first time getting to assess his technical abilities. striking, defense… his whole fighting style.

he nods, understanding in his eyes as he resumes his stance. “right. I forgot I’m on trial here,” he smirks, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. “feel free to poke and prod as much as you want.”

you roll your eyes, but the good-natured expression on your face stays. 

you quickly realize his strengths as you take in his movements, his swift footwork and precise punches. he shows a natural aptitude for striking, his blows instinctive and powerful. he seems to have a good sense of distance and awareness, able to dodge and weave with surprising grace for someone so tall. he’s quick, and he knows how to use it to his benefit, moving with a fluid confidence that’s easy to underestimate. 

he anticipates your counters, adjusting his strategy on the fly and adapting quickly to your own defensive techniques. his instincts are sharp, and he makes use of his reach in a way that’s both impressive and frustrating. he’s able to keep you at a distance, using his long arms to land punches before you can even get close enough to counter because doing so almost always leaves you open to a devastating blow.

it goes without saying that you’re at a disadvantage, so it’s a good thing you’re just sparring. still, you hold your own, and his eyes glint with respect, impressed. he clearly underestimated you.

this goes on for a while, with you beginning to truly appreciate just how skilled he is. his reactions are fast, his moves deliberate. or at least as thought-out as they can be in the moment. he has a natural talent for fighting, a combination of strength, agility, and the ability to think on his feet.

but there’s something else that’s just as apparent. with his clear physical advantage, he’s being especially careful, aware of his own strength and actively trying not to hurt you. he knows the power behind his fists, and he’s consciously holding back. he moves with control, pulling his blows at the last second, making sure to keep the spar lighthearted. 

you try not to think too hard about how easily he could overpower you if he wasn’t choosing not to.

as you continue to exchange jabs and counter-attacks, his lips quirk into a small grin. “not bad. you pack quite a punch for someone so small.”

“I could still kick your ass.”

his grin widens into a full-blown smile at your bold response. “is that so?” he chuckles challengingly, “you’re feisty, I’ll give you that.” he takes a step closer, his eyes glittering with good humor. “careful though, sweetheart. cockiness can get you in trouble.” and it’s so like something you would say, his mocking tone evident of that fact.

you play at taking him down, but he’s quick to react. in a flash, he’s got you in a headlock and the fucker’s laughing. it echoes in your ear as he leans down closer, his glove tangling with your hair as he ruffles it, messing it up intentionally.

“nice try, honey.” he pulls you flush against him, his chest solid against your back, his muscles tensing and flexing as he holds you in place. “who’s got who’s ass now, huh?” he teases, his tattooed bicep firm but strangely gentle around your neck. it’s a bizarre contrast, his powerful grip, the muscled arm caging you in, and yet there’s a tenderness in his hold. despite the predicament you find yourself in, it doesn’t feel threatening — it feels thrilling. 

“looks like I got you right where I want you.” he’s clearly enjoying having the upper hand, and he knows exactly how to push your buttons. “I’ll let you go when you tap out.”

the pressure his grip affords makes your head swim, and you swallow thickly at the whole host of feelings the sensation brings to the surface, your body responding against your will.

you squirm a bit, trying to ignore the arousal building between your thighs as you become increasingly turned on, but his hold on you doesn’t waver. if anything, you only serve to press your body more firmly against his chest.

he notices the movement, a shit-eating grin spreading across his face as he realizes the effect he’s having on you. “something wrong?” he rumbles lowly, amused.

almost immediately, you tap out with a huff, and he releases you from his hold, his arm slowly uncoiling from around your neck. 

“giving up already? I thought you were going to kick my ass.”

“fuck you,” you shake your head. 

“thought you didn’t do clients.” he quirks an eyebrow, smirking at you mischievously, tongue in cheek.

you can’t help blushing at his teasing, a mixture of mild irritation and undeniable attraction swirling within you. “shut up,” you mutter feebly, rolling your eyes. “you’re a real ass, ya’know that?” you snap in annoyance, but you can’t quite keep the amusement out of your voice.

“I have a great ass?” he smiles cheekily, eyes glittering with mirth. “why thank you.” he can’t resist teasing you further, not when he so enjoys riling you up. “I’m glad you noticed.”

all your talk of professionalism, and it doesn’t matter. with every flush of your cheeks, his mind immediately wanders to what other expressions he could draw out of you.

“alright, listen up,” your voice snaps him out of his train of thought. 

“you’ve got a good punch,” you begin, “but your defense needs work. you rely too much on dodging; you need to focus on tightening your guard to minimize risks.”

Noah listens intently, absorbing your feedback as he switches gears from playful to serious. “I’ll work on it.”

“good,” you affirm, “and warming up properly is crucial. it’s not just about preventing injuries. it’s about preparing mentally and physically for what’s ahead.”

he nods. “got it. warm-up routine, check.”

“I know you’re in this to clear your debts, but fighting smart is what will get you through. it’s not just about strength; it’s about strategy, discipline, and making every move count. you’ve got potential, Noah, but potential alone won’t win fights. you need someone who can refine your skills, strategize with you, bring out the best in you.”

“are you offering to be that someone?” he smirks, looking at you expectantly.

“I am.”

・❥・

Noah’s already inside, you know that much, but he’d told you to let him know once you got there, and he’d meet you outside, walk you in. you don’t let him know — you’re too busy being a big jumble of nerves, pacing outside the entrance like a maniac. he doesn’t need your nervous energy to fuck up his headspace. least of all when he doesn’t know your story or understand why this is so hard for you. he’s anxious enough without the addition of your anxiety, which is why you have to push it aside before you walk through those doors.

as you wait outside the arena, your heart pounds a nervous rhythm in your chest. the thought of stepping back into this environment, watching another fight… it makes you want to turn right back around and go home, but you’d promised yourself — and Noah — that you could do this. 

you can’t let yourself get overwhelmed. not now when he’s counting on you. you’re here to help him, not complicate things with your own emotional baggage. 

this is his fight. even more significant because it’s his first with you as his manager.

taking a deep breath, you try to steady yourself and push through the doors.

the gym is the typical gritty, unglamorous place one expects to find a secret fight. low ceilings, concrete flooring, the smell of old sweat and cheap beer ever present. 

the sounds of cheering and the thump of fists against skin reach your ears as you finally step into the venue, stirring up memories you’d rather leave buried. the atmosphere is stiflingly hot and filled with an electric tension. lights flare from one of multiple rings as two fighters lock eyes, their muscles quivering with adrenaline and anticipation. 

you weave through the crowd, searching for a familiar face when a hand roughly encircles your wrist, pulling you backward. you spin around, alarmed, only to find yourself face to face with someone who definitely isn’t Noah. he looks vaguely familiar, but you can’t place him. all you know is he’s bigger than you and looming over you menacingly.

“you lost, sweetheart?” his eyes roam over you, lingering in a way that makes you uncomfortable.

“no,” you shake your head, tugging your hand from his grip, “I’m just looking for–”

“me. she’s with me.”

Noah. he must’ve been keeping an eye out for you.

your sentence is cut off as he steps in, positioning himself between you and the other guy. he’s at least a foot taller, and he looks ready to brawl. his body language makes it clear that the conversation is over, and the burly man must take one look at Noah and decide it’s not worth the hassle because he grumbles something under his breath before turning on his heels and walking away.

“thought I told you I’d meet you outside.”

“just figured I’d save you the trouble.”

“maybe next time, wait for me?” Noah offers gently.

as he reaches out and gently grabs your hand, his touch so different from the rough grip of the stranger, something in your face or body language must catch his attention because his eyes narrow slightly in concern. he pulls you further away from the crowd, leading you to a secluded spot sheltered by a support beam.

he has no reservations about pushing you up against it and resting a hand next to your head, bicep on display, as he ducks down into your bubble. “hey, you good?” he asks, leaning in closer so you can hear him over the noise. if your head wasn’t already spinning, that’d do it. “you look like you’re about to pass out.” his eyes search your face, worry flickering in them.

“I’m fine,” you lie, “it’s just hot in here.”

he studies you for a minute, his gaze sharp and observant. “bullshit,” he mutters softly. “your hands are shaking.”

he leads you into the relative quiet of the locker room, hovering over you the whole way just in case you do pass out on him and need his support, and the cool air is a stark contrast to the stifling heat of the main arena. the sounds from outside are muted here, the cacophony of the crowd dulled by the thick walls as he gently pulls you to sit on a nearby bench. 

he sits close, his thigh brushing against yours. “you’re a terrible liar,” he states bluntly. “you look like you’re about to be sick. is this because of that guy? because I meant what I said about taking care of people who take care of me. someone’s bothering you, don’t fucking hesitate to use your big scary dog privileges and sic me on ‘em.”

“okay, Rottweiler.”

“I mean it.”

“I hear you. loud and clear, Rottie, thank you.” the nickname slips from your lips before you can stop it. 

Noah cocks his head sweetly like the namesake, big brown eyes fixed on you affectionately.

it’s fitting given how Rottweilers and fighters are similarly stereotyped — thought to be dangerous and aggressive — but Noah is a profound reminder that first impressions can be deceiving, that true character lies not in outward appearance but in the depths of the soul; and in Noah’s case, that soul is the most gentle spirit, brimming with loyalty and devotion.

then again, that doesn’t mean he’s a doormat. in most circumstances, there is no way, shape, or form in which he’d let anyone else walk all over him. he’s not a pushover. least of all when it comes to those he feels he has a responsibility to protect. which, in this case, is you. always you. 

if he thinks you’re so unsettled because of earlier, you’re inclined to let him. in truth, you’re grateful to have an excuse, something to pin your built up tension and anxiety on other than the real reason, even if he doesn’t entirely buy into it. the last thing you want to do right now is dredge up the skeletons in the closet.

you can’t bring yourself to look at him, instead looking at the black fabric hand wraps lying in a heap on the bench. “you want me to wrap your hands?”

you can tell he’s not fully satisfied with not getting an answer, but he finally relents and holds out a hand to you. not because he needs you to, but because he understands the need to fill time with busywork to refocus anxious energy. “yeah, sure.”

he frowns, noticing your fingers still trembling as he watches you go through the motions, slow and methodical. he can practically see the wheels turning in your head as you work, and it’s both endearing and a little worrying, even as you finish wrapping both hands in record time. 

 “flex for me?”

a smirk tugs at the corner of his lips but he does as you ask, flexing his hands and wrists for you. the muscles in his forearms ripple and tense with the movement, his veins standing out against his skin, and the tattoos on his arms shift, the ink twisting and dancing with his every movement.

he chuckles softly. “you just wanted an excuse to ask me to flex, huh?”

his eyes roam over your face, taking in the way your tongue wets your bottom lip, the slight flush across your cheeks, the way your throat bobs ever so slightly as you swallow. he grins, clearly enjoying the effect he has on you. especially when in efforts to ignore him, your expression turns even more focused.

“you know,” he muses, “if you keep biting your lip like that, you’re going to draw blood. like what you see?” he teases, his tone playful but his gaze never leaving your face. 

you roll your eyes and continue to ignore him, even if the sight has you feeling a little dizzy, drawing a little too much attention to inked fingers and tattooed arms. “that feel good?” you ask. “it’s not too tight?”

he chuckles at your reaction, enjoying your attempt to ignore his teasing. 

“kinda feels like a question I could be asking you in a different scenario.”

you slap his chest playfully.

“it’s perfect,” he confirms, seriously this time, rolling his wrists, flexing his fingers as he tests the fit of the tape. the veins in his forearms pop out, corded and strong. “you’ve got a nice touch. you clearly know what you’re doing,” he compliments. 

“you know… you don’t have to worry,” he says softly. “I’ve had tougher fights than this.”

“I know. you’ve got this.” there’s no trace of doubt in your voice. “I’m not worried about that,” you say, “promise,” dropping a kiss to his newly wrapped knuckles before holding up your pinky finger to him.

his eyes widen slightly at the feeling, and even with the layer of tape between you, a jolt of electricity runs through him. he swallows hard at the unexpected gesture, soft and so goddamn sweet. a wave of affection washes over him.

he lifts his own pinky finger, looping it around yours in a promise. “I’ve got this,” he echoes, a gentle reassurance that’s clearly for your benefit.

“you gonna be ringside?” he asks, and you can tell that he wants you to say yes. you sense it’s not just for the support but because he can keep an eye on you. it’s a distraction he doesn’t need, but you haven’t exactly done the best job of alleviating his concerns when it comes to you.

you open your mouth to respond, but he beats you to it. 

“please,” he says quietly, looking at you seriously. “I’d feel better if I knew you were right there watching.”

he can read the hesitation in your eyes, knows you’re torn between being there for him and potentially distracting him from the fight. 

he reaches out, running a thumb lightly across your jawline. “I want you there,” he admits quietly. “I need to see you, okay? if I know where you are, it’ll help me stay focused.”

the thought of sitting ringside makes your stomach flip flop nervously, but you eventually sigh and nod reluctantly. “okay.”

you can see the relief in his eyes as you agree, and it’s obvious that seeing you safe and close is a priority for him. 

he studies you. “you gonna be alright?” he asks, his voice low and concerned. you can feel his gaze on you, searching and assessing, and it’s clear that being able to read each other is not in fact a one-way street. he can read you just as easily as you can read him. 

your nerves, your unease — he can sense all of it. you can only hope that he can’t also sense when you’re lying. 

“I’m okay.” 

he nods once, pushing himself up off the bench.

“see you ringside, then.”

“remember what we talked about. pay attention to your core,” you remind him. “you’re going to win, Noah. you’ve already got your opponent beat. he’s a fast striker but easily frustrated. you have quicker defense. he keeps throwing punches that don’t land, he’ll start making mistakes, leaving himself open. just keep a cool head and pace yourself. don’t get cocky.”

Noah soaks in your words like a sponge, mentally absorbing every piece of advice you’ve given him, and he nods, understanding your strategy. “stay focused, keep my defense tight, and wait for his mistakes, got it.” 

he can practically feel the adrenaline starting to course through his veins, the rush of excitement just beneath his skin.

but there’s something else, too — the comfort derived from knowing you’ll be there, watching and rooting for him. he doesn’t let himself linger on it for too long, but in the back of his mind, he silently makes a vow to win for you. 

“promise I won’t get my ass handed to me. no cocky bullshit.”

you make your way back out to the main ring, and it’s a sensory overload you haven’t missed. it’s packed with people, some shoulder to shoulder, and it’s so loud you can hardly hear yourself think. a feeling of distaste rises within you at the sight of money passing hands, bets being made. 

the Concrete Underground is a lawless place, and the spectators, so far removed from the reality of the situation, treat it like a thrill, a game, oblivious to the true stakes involved. it’s the danger of illegal fighting — no one regulating it, not in any way that really counts. certainly not in any way that isn’t motivated by financial gain.

your presence here seems to draw the attention of a few people, but you try to ignore the eyes on you as you make your way closer to the area reserved for you. 

you swallow down the bile rising in your throat, praying that this is not when you get sick. not now. not here. 

you feel like you might throw up, and it’s not because your ears are ringing from the noise or the smells, although that’s certainly not helping. it’s because you can’t shake the vision in front of you: your last fighter, head split open on the mat. 

the noise around you fades into a distant hum, your focus narrowing in on the ring and honing in on the image haunting your mind’s eye. his blood pooling on the vinyl. 

the memories are vivid and unwelcome, making it hard to concentrate on anything but the horror that replays in your head as your stomach churns and nausea wells up within you.

you feel the room closing in around you, and you try to take deep, steadying breaths, even if they’re shaky, and force yourself to push past the memories and focus on the present. you can’t let yourself spiral now, not when you need to be strong for Noah.

you don’t even notice they’ve already introduced his opponent. 

you don’t even notice you’ve stopped breathing when they introduce Noah into the ring. Noah ‘The King’ Sebastian.

the roaring applause and chants of his fighting name pull you back to reality as the announcer introduces him, but you can barely hear them over the sound of your pulse pounding in your ears. your chest tightens with anxiety as you watch him stride confidently into the ring, a deadly grace in his every move. the sight of him under the bright lights, his eyes scanning the crowd until they find yours, makes your heart skip a beat.

he looks like a goddamn king with the way his gaze pins you, intense and dominant, and from the way he’s looking at you, he knows it too.

his lips quirk upward cockily as he smiles in your direction and just like that, all the air comes rushing back in. he knows you’re watching, and he’s putting on a show, reassurance that he’s in full control. that cocky smirk, all part of his fighting persona, is enough to lift the fog of fear and apprehension.

Noah looks every inch the champion, mouthing, “watch me”, before turning his attention to his opponent, his focus turning razor sharp with cold determination.

you realize belatedly that the fighter across from him is the same guy who grabbed you earlier in the crowd. you knew he’d looked familiar. his picture was on the roster. had he known? your heart sinks as the pair approach the center of the ring, sizing each other up ominously. 

this is going to be trouble. 

suddenly, the match has taken on a whole new significance. if you weren’t already invested in seeing Noah win, you certainly are now.

just before the bell signals the start of the fight, Noah leans in real close and says something into his ear. you can’t make out the words, but the tension in both of their bodies is clear, and judging by the way Noah’s expression darkens, you can guess he’s probably not whispering sweet nothings. 

he’s letting this get personal, letting his emotions cloud his judgment — the very thing you told him not to do — by trying to under his skin, trash-talking and psyching out his opponent before the fight even begins. 

a feeling of unease settles in your stomach as the man across from Noah glances in your direction, realization washing over you. it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what they’re likely talking about. who they’re likely talking about. 

your heart rate picks up a notch as you watch the exchange, wondering just what exactly is being said about you.

thank god that the bell rings before it can escalate any further. 

you can only pray that Noah can keep his temper in check; you weren’t lying when you said he had the advantage, but that’s only as long as he doesn’t let his emotions distract him from the match or throw him off his game.

you’re pleasantly surprised with the amount of control he exhibits. 

the fight passes in a blur of fists and footwork, the clash of bodies and the grunt of impact. swift movements and powerful strikes.

Noah is untouchable, his defense unyielding. blow after blow, his opponent struggles to land a single hit, frustration mounting in his eyes. his attacks grow increasingly sloppy and desperate. Noah clearly got in his head, and he’s letting it show.

he charges forward, eager and reckless. Noah, on the other hand, is cool and collected. he avoids his opponent’s attacks and counters with lethal accuracy. each punch he throws is precise and calculated, showcasing his training and experience. his opponent may be a skilled striker, but Noah is one step ahead, picking apart his defenses and exploiting every mistake.

it’s over almost as fast as it started, ending in the span of a few minutes. so fast that your head’s left spinning.

before you know it, Noah’s competitor is down on the ground, and Noah’s hand is raised as he’s declared the winner. he stands in the center of the ring, his fists raised in the air, having barely broken a sweat, and he’s looking straight at you.

a flood of relief rushes through you and makes you feel dizzy. he won.

he’s okay. 

he’s alive. 

he’s breathing. 

he’s not your last fighter. 

you blink away the image burning into your eyelids. 

memories of the past fade, replaced by the reality of the present. a present where Noah’s standing in front of you, unharmed and victorious, a feral grin on his face. 

he seems almost otherworldly in that moment; he looks like a god of war, a champion, but when his gaze meets yours, it softens in a way unspoken. like the only person he wants to share this with is you.

you make sure to cheer real loud for him, even whistle… you’ll lecture him later.

after his win in the ring, Noah saunters towards you with a satisfied smirk on his face. 

“thought you said no cocky bullshit.”

“I won, didn’t I?” you can see the adrenaline still coursing through him, the thrill of victory evident in his eyes, making him feel invincible. he takes a step closer, closing the distance between you. “you’re a good luck charm,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “I should keep you around.”

“‘m not going anywhere, Rottie,” you assure him, your soft spot for him taking precedence over your scolding. “but you shouldn’t have antagonized him like that. fighters are dangerous enough when they’re calm… and they’re even more unpredictable when they’re angry,” you lecture lightly. he knows this. “I appreciate your concern for me,” you say, choosing your words carefully, “but I don’t need you escalating things. especially when it potentially endangers you as well.”

Noah appears both apologetic and stubborn, still clearly feeling somewhat justified in his behavior. 

you place a reassuring hand on his arm, wordlessly pleading for him to listen. “you don’t need to prove anything to me,” you say, your eyes searching his face for understanding. 

sighing, you thaw a bit.

you understand why he did it, and you appreciate that he wanted to defend you. on some deep, primal level you even feel a sense of attraction towards his willingness to fight on your behalf, but it was unnecessary and potentially dangerous. 

“you’re lucky that guy didn’t turn it up a notch. you can’t keep doing that.”

he gives a small nod, acknowledging your concern. “I get it,” he says, his tone still slightly defensive. “it’s just… I wasn’t planning to let him get away with putting his hands on you like that.”

you’re trying very hard to look disappointed in him, but he’s making it impossible. 

“I love that you want to look out for me, but that can’t happen at the risk of your own safety, yeah?”

“yeah, okay,” he concedes reluctantly.

・❥・

life with Noah is surprisingly mundane. the chaos and danger of his underground fighting life seem to melt away when he walks through your door. he’s different here, softer.

the man who can knock someone out with a single punch becomes a considerate roommate. he remembers your coffee order. he insists on walking you to and from work at the gym, making sure you’re safe. he carries in all the groceries, always insisting on doing the heavy lifting.

it turns out the six foot-three gentle giant now crashing on your couch is bent on paying you back with acts of service, always doing small gestures to show he cares. they become a silent language he uses to express his gratitude and affection, and he finds himself going out of his way to make life easier for you. 

he likes taking care of you. it makes him feel needed, and he likes the way you look at him when he does something nice for you. 

he’s never thought of himself as the domestic type. he’s always been more used to quick hookups and no strings attached, but there’s something about his dynamic with you that feels different. he enjoys the simplicity of living with you, the routine of sharing space…

he finds himself craving the little moments with you, whether it’s a shared cup of coffee in the morning, a quiet conversation over dinner, or the way your eyes light up when you talk about the latest book you’ve been reading. he files all the little things he learns in your shared day-to-day — your favorite foods, the music you like to play, the shows you watch — away where he can pull from them.

those weeks are filled with a sort of routine that neither of you anticipated, a comfortable cohabitation that makes the line between friends and something more blur even further as he slips seamlessly into every facet of your life. 

as days turn into weeks, the feeling of comfort and security lulls you into a false sense of safety. but deep down inside, you should’ve known better. you knew better. nothing good lasted. fate wasn’t done toying with you yet and the instant you let your guard down, the other shoe dropped.

the warning signs were subtle, nearly invisible. things were going too smoothly for it to last, but you, wrapped up in the illusion of domestic bliss with Noah, failed to see them.

they appeared in the form of rumors. whispers spread among fighters and spectators alike, gossip about Noah’s string of easy wins. they grumbled that he was being fed weaker opponents, handed victories on a silver platter.

the truth was that you had been handpicking opponents for Noah who were in his own weight class, a consideration that often wasn’t made in underground fighting. these matches were fair, equal, but the underground world didn’t care for that. they cared about entertainment and profits, and a string of easy wins for Noah wasn’t exciting enough, not profitable enough.

you knew all too well the underhanded tactics of the underground fighting circuit. weight classes were a formality at best. it wasn’t uncommon for fighters to be matched against opponents far larger than them, just for the thrill of it all. you’d done your best to avoid that for Noah, knowing the danger it posed. 

your diligence hadn’t gone unnoticed. rumors spread like wildfire in the fighting scene. they accused you of coddling Noah, and that’s when the whispers turned into something more sinister. people began going as far as accusing you of rigging the matches in his favor for your own gain. of his opponents throwing matches for a payoff.

when the weekend of his next fight rolls around, you find out that the opponent you’d chosen for him has been replaced. your stomach drops as you realize he’s been swapped out at the last minute, and a feeling of dread washes over you as you realize what this means. someone’s interfering with the match in a way designed to make things more difficult for Noah.

whoever this new opponent is, they’re an unknown factor, and you don’t like it. you don’t know their strengths, their weaknesses, their fighting style. 

you can’t coach Noah, only trust him to hold his own.

you wrap Noah’s hands in the locker room, pressing a quick kiss to his knuckles for good luck — a pre-fight routine you’ve fallen into easily.

in a world of unknowns, the little bit of familiarity is welcome. the repetitive movements of it help calm your nerves and the sensations ground Noah’s anxiety, the motions soothing for you both.

“you don’t have to go through with this,” you say, but you know Noah better than that. he’s strong, confident, and he thinks he has something to prove. 

and then there’s the fact that the harder the fight, the greater the winnings. the more he’s outmatched, the bigger the imbalance, the more money toward paying off his debt. 

he gives you a small, reassuring smile, one that makes your heart flutter despite your current predicament. “I know,” he replies, his voice steady and sure, “but I’m not backing down. I can take this guy.” he flexes his bandaged hands slightly, a glint of determination in his eyes. “besides,” he adds, his tone lighter, “I wouldn’t want to disappoint my good luck charm.”

・❥・

if you thought your nerves were bad before… you’re a fucking wreck now.

you feel like you’re going to throw up, but what else is new? you’re shaking like a leaf, and you can practically feel your heart trying to escape from your ribcage as you watch Noah step up into the ring. 

he locks eyes with you and tilts his head, stretching his neck from side to side as if to assert his dominance over the other fighter as he feigns indifference. it’s almost as if he’s telling you not to worry, that he’s got this.

but you know the truth. you know that the odds are stacked against him.

your anxiety is sky high, your heart pounding so loudly in your chest that it nearly drowns out the noise of the crowd. your palms are clammy, your breathing shallow, and as you watch Noah face off opposite his opponent, the reality of the situation crashes over you. 

this time isn’t like the others. this time he isn’t evenly matched, and the fighter across from him could very well deal some actual damage.

he’s almost as tall as Noah and wider set, broad back and even broader shoulders.

the contrast between the two fighters is stark. where Noah is lean and muscular, this guy is built like a tank. his stance alone is solid as a rock. 

fuck. 

you watch anxiously as Noah tightens up his form, his usual swagger replaced with a more calculating expression. he may look outwardly calm, but you know beneath that facade is caution. he’ll act defensively until he gets a better read on his opponent, trying to get a feel for his weaknesses and use them as openings.

blood. a body on the ground. head split open. the images flash across your vision as you watch the strong-armed fighter circle around Noah like a predator stalking his prey, his eyes cold and calculating.

no matter how hard you try, you can’t shake off the memory of the past, once again rearing its ugly head and bringing with it the fear that gripped your heart as you picture your last fighter lying motionless on the mat. except upon closer inspection, it’s no longer him. it’s Noah.

caught between watching the action in the ring and fending off the rising panic attack, you try to shut out the image, to push it down and out of your head. your stomach twists itself further into knots as your thoughts race, and you struggle to keep them from overpowering your mind. 

this is not the same. 

this is different. 

Noah will come out of this okay. 

he has to.

time stands still. it’s not like you black out, but you might as well have.

the world around you fades, leaving you suspended in a bubble of disorientation that keeps you detached from reality, as if you’re watching events unfold from a distance. 

everything blurs into a confusing, nightmarish haze. the sound of fists hitting flesh doesn’t fully register, muffled and distant as the fight plays out in a dizzying tableau, a blur of movement and shadows. 

time becomes an abstract concept, slipping through your fingers like sand as you struggle to maintain your presence of mind. you find you have no idea how much has passed. seconds? minutes? you can’t tell. it could just as easily be hours.

all disoriented, you don’t even register the bell signaling the end of the fight, still caught up in the chaotic whirlwind of your thoughts and emotions and virtually unable to make heads or tails of any of it. all you know is the rising wave of panic that washes over you, suffocating you slowly. 

you don’t notice the stranger next to you staring in recognition. you don’t notice much of anything as you struggle to calm your breathing. are you breathing? it doesn’t feel like you’re getting any air. 

suddenly Noah is in front of you, concern etched across his face. “hey.” his voice sounds muffled even though you know he’s speaking perfectly clearly. “you with me?”

that’s when the man beside you chooses to butt in. “hey, are you who I think you are?” he looks at you as if familiar. “it’s true? you’re managing again?”

the words barely register. 

your chest feels tight. you feel dizzy.

Noah practically shoots daggers at him with his eyes. 

“no wonder you’re rigging his fights after what happened to your last fighter.”

somehow the stranger’s words manage to cut through the noise even when the last thing you wanted was to hear them, their accusatory tone slicing through your already ragged state. the mention of him brings up all the trauma you’ve tried so desperately to move past, and it hits hard, like a sucker punch to the gut. 

Noah’s response is immediate, his body tense and muscles coiled like a tiger ready to pounce. his eyes flash with anger as he levels him with a death glare, instinctively stepping between you and the stranger, a shield against any further intrusion.

“back the fuck off,” he growls, his voice low and dangerous. 

you’d have to be a fool to mess with that tone, so back off he does. 

Noah’s protective instincts take over as he guides you into the locker room. you suppose it’s quickly become a safe haven of sorts. he shuts the door behind him, effectively shutting out any other distractions that might compound your already heightened state.

“you’re having a panic attack.” you hear him say. “can I touch you?”

you nod, which is about all you have the capacity to offer him right now.

his touch is gentle, yet firm as he guides you to a bench and pulls you onto his lap, snaking his arms around you. there’s an intimacy in the way he so easily tucks into your neck, his face pressed against your skin.

“breathe with me,” he murmurs, his voice a soothing whisper in your ear. he starts taking slow, measured breaths, each inhale and exhale deliberate and steady. the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest against your back sets a calming pace, encouraging you to match his breathing as he leads by example. 

Noah notices your fists clenched tightly in your lap, and he knows you need something more to center yourself. so with a care evident of personal experience, he guides your trembling fingers to reach back and tangle in his hair. 

he knows the value of a tactile anchor at times like these, something real and grounding to cling to. as your fingers grasp his soft locks, he continues to guide you in deep, steady breaths.

“I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. you can hold on tight. you’re okay,” he whispers. 

he holds you in silence for a while, just letting you take as much time as you need until you’re breathing steadily enough to ask him, voice wavering, “are you?” 

“I’m okay,” he tells you, and the gentle vibration of his voice against you is comforting, the sound of it soothing your frayed nerves. “here, feel.” he shifts you so you can press a hand to his heart, feeling it beating steadily and reassuringly under your palm. 

as if sensing your lingering concern, Noah’s voice cuts through the silence. “you don’t have to worry about me. I won.”

pride sounds in his voice, reflecting the determination and skill that had carried him through that fight. it’s a reminder that his victory wasn’t a stroke of luck but a testament to his own strength and prowess.

now he just wants to ease your worries, to reassure you that he’s safe and unharmed, that the fight is over and everything is alright; so he does it the only other way he knows how. he holds you. he keeps holding you. 

as the panic attack subsides, your heartbeat and breathing now evened out, exhaustion washes over you, leaving you drained. the adrenaline that had fueled your anxiety ebbs away, replaced by a deep weariness that settles into your bones. you’re physically and emotionally spent, and all you want now is the comfort of your bed.

Noah, as perceptive as ever, tightens his arms around you, his voice soft and caring. “let’s get you home, yeah?”

your legs feel shaky, the aftermath of the panic attack making it difficult to stand on your own, but Noah is there to support you.

he helps you to your feet, bracing you against his solid frame to ensure you don’t wobble and steadying you as you find your footing. “I’ve got you,” he assures you gently. “you can lean on me.” he keeps his grip firm, not wanting you to stumble. 

his eyes scan your face, studying every detail to make sure you’re okay, and then you make your way out of the gym with Noah in tow, the warmth of him at your back as he keeps close in case you need support.

he’s easily a head taller than almost everyone here, but he’s trying to make himself look taller to anyone who might approach you. you don’t realize what’s going on, why people shy away, until you see him visibly squaring up.

it’s a subtle intimidation tactic that keeps everyone at bay, people actively avoiding him and steering clear of your path.

“Rottie,” you grumble the nickname you’ve given him, recognizing his defensive behavior. he’s trying to guard you, even if it’s just from unwanted attention, and you can see it. the smallest smile breaks out across your face as you tease him, “down, boy,” and the sight relieves some of his worry. he fights back a grin.

but despite the playful jab, you can’t deny that you’re secretly touched by his protective nature. it warms your heart to see how fiercely he’s ready to defend you, even for something as simple as your space. 

you hardly feel like having a repeat of earlier. your head’s still reeling from what that man in the crowd had said.

with any luck, Noah won’t bring it up either. 

without a word, you toss him the keys to your car, an unspoken agreement between you. he’s driving you home, and you’re not going to argue.

at least being home in your apartment offers a small sense of comfort as you fall into the usual routine of settling in for the night. however, this time, as he moves towards the couch, intending to sleep there, you grab Noah’s hand and gently pull him towards the bedroom instead.

even as the two of you curl up together, worry gnaws at you. your mind whispers warnings, wondering if this closeness is a mistake, if it’ll only hurt you more in the long run.

you find yourself grappling with the realization that you’re developing a deep attachment to him, and this newfound vulnerability is both exciting and terrifying given his current predicament.

this wasn’t supposed to happen. you were supposed to keep your distance.

a nagging fear looms over you. what if something happens to him? if you let yourself care too deeply, the pain of loss will be unbearable.

it was a mistake to invite him into your bed.

behind you, Noah shifts, his arms coming up to cradle you protectively. 

“stop thinking so loud,” he mumbles, his voice slightly muffled against the back of your neck. “go to sleep.”

for a few minutes, the only sound is the rhythmic beating of your combined heartbeats until your voice breaks through the quiet. “I’m sorry,” you whisper.

Noah remains silent for a beat, his fingers tracing soothing patterns on your skin. “what are you sorry for?” he asks gently.

“I should’ve been there for you today instead of you having to take care of me.” 

Noah’s concern deepens as he picks up on your whispered apology. he tightens his arm around you, pulling you impossibly closer. “shhh,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin. “that’s not how this works. you have nothing to be sorry for.”

his voice is gentle, understanding. “it’s not about whether you should have been there for me or not. it’s about what you need, and today, you needed support. I needed to be here for you.” he plants a kiss to your hair. “you needed me today, and I was there for you. that’s all that matters.” 

you’ve given him a place to stay, taken on the responsibility of managing him, believed in him where so many others wouldn’t…

“you’ve done so much for me,” he whispers. “this is the least I can do.” then, teasingly, “I think this is where I ask you why it’s so easy for you to take care of me and not to let me take care of you.” 

a chuckle escapes your lips as he playfully throws your own words back at you.

you hum in acknowledgment, conceding that he has a point. “mhm,” you say, a quiet admission of defeat. “you’ve got me there.” 

you recognize the irony. you know you’ve lectured him on letting himself be taken care of, but here you are, still struggling to practice what you preach.

his cheeky grin widens. “see? I do listen sometimes, y’know.”

you turn your head back to look at him. “thank you,” you murmur, “for taking care of me, Rottie.” 

his grin turns shy. 

“you don’t need to thank me,” he whispers back, his lips brushing softly against your forehead, “but you’re welcome anyway. now, get some sleep,” he rumbles. “you need it.”

・❥・

you’re acutely aware of the unfamiliarity of sharing your bed with someone else. the intimate way Noah holds you throughout the night — his arms around you, his chest solid against your back — feels foreign. every time you stir, it takes you a minute to remember where you are, who’s holding you, but the steady rise and fall of his chest behind you quickly becomes a soothing rhythm that lulls you back to sleep.

when the soft light of morning rouses you, you’re immediately aware of the heat of him seeping into your skin through the thin fabric of your clothes and the comforting weight of his arm slung over you. 

despite knowing this is all temporary, you can’t help but realize longingly that you really like it. you try to hold on to your little slice of peace, silently hoping that it could stretch endlessly, but inevitably, the real world has to intrude.

as Noah shifts next to you, you fight the urge to move, holding still for a while as you listen to his soft inhales and exhales, relishing in the feeling of his body against yours. eventually, his eyes flutter open, and maybe it’s the change in his breathing or the slight movement of his limbs, but it pulls you out of your peaceful semi-consciousness. 

he blinks with tired eyes before his gaze finds yours. a lazy smile spreads across his face. “morning,” he murmurs roughly. 

he lets out a soft, sleep-heavy grumble, his arm tightening slightly around you as he pulls you closer before releasing you and stretching. you feel a pang of disappointment as the warmth of his body retreats, his arm lifted gently away from you.

as he stretches, the fabric of his shirt lifts, exposing a sliver of his toned stomach. despite your best efforts to keep your eyes fixed on his face, they dart down against your will. the sight of his exposed skin is like a magnet, drawing your attention to the narrow strip of bare, tattooed flesh. for more than a few seconds, you find yourself staring, your mind wandering into inappropriate territories.

you mentally berate yourself. get it together. 

you can’t start noticing every little thing about him, like how handsome he looks with sleep-tousled hair or how his sleepy eyes and rumpled clothes make your heart skip a beat. 

pushing those thoughts down, you force yourself to look away, cursing inwardly as you realize how deep your feelings are. 

this is bad. 

you shouldn’t be noticing how attractive he looks when he’s just waking up. you definitely shouldn’t be wanting to run your fingers through his messy hair. but you are noticing, and you do want, and it all adds up to a dangerous and dizzying feeling that’s growing harder to deny. 

in short, you’re screwed. you’re more than just physically attracted to him; you’re starting to feel things you never planned on feeling. 

you’re fucking falling for him. 

panic settles in your gut. 

“I don’t think you should fight,” you blurt, the words spilling out before you can fully process them.

Noah turns to look at you, confusion overtaking his features as he processes your sudden outburst. the sleepy haze that had been in his eyes seconds before is replaced by surprise and more confusion, but he masks it by adopting a teasing tone, trying to lighten the suddenly heavy vibe in the room. 

he grins softly, if a little wary. “why, you worried about me?”

in any other instance, you might playfully roll your eyes or offer a light-hearted retort, but right now, the anxiety bubbling within you is too strong to ignore. 

you swallow hard, your heart thudding in your chest. “yes,” you say, your voice bordering on a snap. “actually I am.”

you worry about him in ways you didn’t expect. ways you told yourself you wouldn’t. you worry about the fights, the injuries, the toll it takes on him, both physically and emotionally. about the debt hanging over his head, the people he owes. about fucking everything.

“I’m serious, Noah.” you huff. “I’m asking you not to.”

Noah’s smirk falters slightly as registers that you’re upset, sitting up in bed and turning to face you fully as his expression becomes more somber. 

he lets out a heavy sigh. “you know it’s not that simple,” he says resignedly. 

he looks at you, trying to read your face. he knows where this conversation is going, and he’s not entirely sure he wants to have it right now. his eyes flicker defensively. 

“if it’s about the money, there are other ways…” you say, your voice a plea. but in the back of your mind, you know that’s a lie. neither of you wants to acknowledge it, but you both know it’s true. they don’t just want his money. they want him.

you’re willing to bet they’re the reason his old manager went away.

Noah runs a hand through his hair, a gesture of frustration and helplessness. “you know as well as I do, they’re not going to just let me walk away. they might as well fucking own me,” he says, his voice hoarse. “I fight for them, and maybe they don’t break my goddamn neck.”

“no. someone else just does it for them in the fucking ring,” you snap.

his expression turns pained as he flinches at your words, the harshness of your tone cutting through the air. 

“what made you quit managing?”

you freeze.

his question catches you off guard, even though you suppose it shouldn’t. he’s seen the panic attacks, the nerves, your anxiety…. he’s not oblivious, he knows what that adds up to. he’s known for a while that there’s something you’re not telling him. 

this conversation is edging into dangerous territory.

Noah notices your reaction, the way you still at his question, the way your body tenses up. he sees the way you start to close off, your walls going up. “Noah…”

he can sense it’s not something you want to talk about, but he presses on regardless. he’s let it rest for long enough. “something happened, didn’t it? with your last fighter. what that guy said at the ring…”

“no wonder you’re rigging his fights after what happened to your last fighter.”

a lump forms in your throat as you try to speak. “he… he died in the ring.” you take a ragged breath. “his opponent was wearing weighted gloves.” the words taste bitter in your mouth, and you swallow hard. “it wasn’t a fair fight. I didn’t even realize what was happening until it was too late.”

even if you had, you wouldn’t have been able to stop it. it was already set in motion the second he stepped into that ring.

“I thought if I managed your fights, I could protect you.” you confess, your voice trembling as if you’re reliving the pain of his death. 

protect you like I couldn’t protect him. 

help you get out before you meet the same fate. 

you thought you could stomach it, but you were wrong. 

you thought you could protect him, but yesterday’s events were proof you couldn’t. there’s only so much you can control, and it’s only what they’ll let you. 

Noah softens. he can see how deeply the fighter’s death has affected you, how it’s shaped the choices you’ve made. 

this hadn’t just been about managing fights; this was personal. you had seen what could happen, and you were desperately trying to prevent history from repeating itself.

Noah’s shoulders slump as he watches you struggle with your guilt and helplessness, wanting to comfort you but knowing there are no words that can erase the past. 

he guides your head to rest against his shoulder as you scooch with your back up against the headboard. “you can’t blame yourself for what happened,” he whispers gently. “it wasn’t your fault.” 

he tries to find the right words to say. 

“I understand why you wanted to,” he says softly, voice touched with understanding and gratitude, “but you can’t protect me from everything. I need this gig. I’m living on your couch for god’s sake. just a few more fights… I’ll pay off my debt, and then I can move out of your apartment and get out of your way.” 

you can see the anxious guilt churning behind his eyes at all the trauma he’s unknowingly made you relive, his words also a desperate attempt to put distance between you as he struggles with the idea that every second spent with you is another he’s indebted to you. 

somehow the idea of paying back your kindness is more daunting than any dollar amount.

“how many more fights is a ‘few’?” you ask. 

Noah falls silent. 

“that’s what I thought.” you shake your head. “Noah, I can’t do this.”

“and you think I want to?” he growls frustratedly. “I’m not fighting for the thrill of it, you know? it’s about survival right now.”

“I know you don’t want to,” you reply quietly, “but I can’t watch you keep risking everything like this.”

Noah rests his head on top of yours defeatedly. “I don’t have a choice,” he murmurs, his voice rough with emotion. “not right now.”

“but what happens when it’s not just a few more fights?” you press, all your worries overflowing despite your efforts to remain composed. “what happens if... something happens to you?”

he looks away. “I’m careful,” he insists, though his words sound more like reassurance to himself than to you.

“you can’t guarantee anything,” you argue gently, your voice pleading. “you can’t guarantee that you won’t end up like…” 

your voice trails off, unable to finish the sentence. 

Noah’s hand moves to clasp yours. “I’m not him,” he says quietly, “and I won’t let it end like that.”

“you say that like you have any control over it.”

“I never wanted you to worry like this,” he says regretfully. “I never wanted any of this for you.”

“it’s not your fault.” you reassure him, squeezing his hand gently. “none of this is.”

“except it is. I hate that you’re caught up in this. I shouldn’t have let you get involved.”

“I chose to be here,” you say, “I chose to stand by you.”

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispers, his voice trembling with emotion.

you shake your head and reach out to gently brush a strand of hair from his forehead. “this isn’t about deserving. it’s about being here for each other.”

“you always know what to say.”

you could say the same thing about him. 

a bittersweet warmth fills your chest, mingling with your nerves about the future and what it holds. “I wish I had all the answers,” you admit, “just promise me we’ll figure them out together.”

it’s his turn to squeeze your hand. “I promise.” 

relief washes over you. 

you know the risks won’t disappear with his promise, but for now, it’s enough to ease the immediate tension between you.

“thank you.”

he offers a small, weary smile, his eyes reflecting his own gratitude. “thank you for caring.”

for a moment, the weight of your unspoken feelings hangs between you, a fragile bridge of connection in the midst of uncertainty. Noah pulls you gently into his arms, and you let yourself lean into the embrace, finding solace in his presence despite the shadows that linger on the horizon.

you can only hope that somehow, against all odds, you’ll find a way to break free from the chains that bind you.

what you don’t know is that he doesn’t tell you about their offer: about the organizer who approached him, offering more money if he throws next week’s fight. 

・❥・

the entire plan goes out the window the instant he sees you.

in his defense, you weren’t supposed to be here. you being here complicates things. 

that look on your face is exactly the reason why he didn’t tell you — the fear of seeing you like this, of knowing he’s the cause of your distress. you look worried, practically chewing off your bottom lip as your eyes nervously flit to his… guilt rises in his stomach like bile. 

that’s all the opening his opponent needs to get in another solid punch to his face. a metallic taste floods his mouth. blood.

all it took was for you to walk through those doors, and he knew he couldn’t throw this fight any longer. consequences be damned.

you don’t like the look of his opponent. this isn’t some minor challenge — this guy looks like a fighter hell-bent on causing damage. he gives new meaning to the phrase “lean, mean, fighting machine.”

it doesn’t matter that Noah’s the favorite. the man across from him can clearly land a punch (Noah’s face is evidence of several), and he’s someone with a reputation for violence. he’s a different sort of beast compared to the men Noah has fought before, a savage creature hungry for blood. 

oh, Noah is going to be in so much trouble when you get your hands on him.

the crowd is roaring, the sound deafening, but at the same time Noah hardly hears it. he has to take back control of this fight.

the ring is his sanctuary, his fortress, his domain. there is no crowd, no noise, nothing but the sound of the bell and the guy across from him. 

almost immediately, Noah is in the zone, his body moving quickly and efficiently as he delivers two solid jabs, from which his opponent quickly recovers and manages to score a quick hook on his jaw. Noah is unfazed, but the hit gets him riled up, his heart pumping adrenaline. 

this guy’s going to regret stepping in the ring with him. 

all bets are off. he’s going to destroy him. 

Noah barely feels the hits, barely registers the pain because he is completely focused, dominating the fight, controlling the pacing, throwing one hard-hitting punch after another. he’s relentless, not letting the pressure get to him. 

he’s focused, and he’s winning, the ultimate picture of control. 

he makes the fight look easy as he strikes one devastating blow after the next. the crowd roars for him, their cheers filling his ears as he continues to pummel his opponent until he’s down on the ground for the last time and Noah is the victor. 

Noah raises his hand, a bright spotlight shining down on him as he struggles to catch his breath. his body is dripping with sweat, his lip is busted, his hands are raw, and his body is on fire, but it was worth it. at the very least, he can face you knowing he won.

he’s barely stepped out of the ring and into the locker room when you corner him after the match.

you stalk up to him hoping that he didn’t see you falter when your eyes clocked his shirtless form, tattoos shining with sweat. he’ll just use it against you. somehow he always knows exactly what to say to get under your skin.

turns out he doesn’t have to say anything — your brain’s doing a perfectly fine job of sabotaging you on its own. you have to remind yourself that you came here to give him a piece of your mind. you’re supposed to be mad at him — you are mad at him, but damn him with his sweat slicked hair falling into his sad puppy dog eyes. you almost feel like you should be apologizing to him.

it’s not attractive. he’s not attractive.

your heart skips a beat. traitor. 

so much for keeping it professional, although you suppose that ship has long since sailed.

he dabs at his face with the towel around his neck, and if you weren’t so obviously pissed, it would be funny. here he is, towering over you, but you’re the one who’s got him with his back against the lockers. if anyone else was crowding into his personal space like you’re doing, they’d be on their ass. you’re the only one who can get away with it, the only one who can get away with a lot of things when it comes to Noah. 

he eyes you warily. good. you’re a force to be reckoned with when you’re angry. 

“you’re fucking unbelievable, you know that? what the hell were you thinking?”

Noah opens his mouth to respond. 

“silly question. don’t answer that.” you shake your head. “obviously you weren’t.” you jab a finger into his chest threateningly. not your wisest decision. all it does is make you hyper aware of how little space there is between you. “don’t you ever pull shit like that again.” 

you give him just enough room that you can shove him once for good measure before your hands grasp the backs of his shoulders, pulling him into a tight hug. at first, he’s tense and unsure, but gradually he softens, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head and tucking you gently against him.

“I’m still mad at you,” you murmur into his neck. 

his breath tickles your skin; “I know.” 

anger he can work with. it’s better than the alternative: disappointment. if he saw disappointment in your eyes, he’s pretty sure it’d burn a hole right through him. seeing that look on your face would hit harder than any punch he’s ever taken in the ring.

“you’re an idiot.”

“guilty,” his voice muffles into your hair. 

“and you need to take a shower.” you wrinkle your nose playfully, pulling away. “you stink.”

“not the most romantic way to say ‘come take a shower with me.’”

“you wish,” you say, shaking your head. “c’mon, let’s go home.” 

let’s go home. 

he has to remind himself that you’re still angry, even when you say it like it’s his too. but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t spend every minute of every day making it up to you, so that home always means the two of you together.

“home sounds good,” he agrees. 

“this doesn’t mean you’re off the hook. I’m still pissed, but I’d rather be pissed at you in the comfort of the apartment.”

wordlessly, you pass him a water bottle full of electrolytes. he never hydrates enough.

you sneak a glance at him then and give him a quick once over. your eyes linger on his split lip, bloody nose... you scour every inch of him, wincing at every new bruise that reveals itself.

“try not to go getting blood on everything.” you make an attempt at teasing, but your tone ends up being biting, falling flat in the wake of your frustration. 

“wouldn’t want to ruin your interior,” he jokes half-heartedly.

“cute.” you roll your eyes, cracking a smile despite yourself.

・❥・

“bathroom,” you bark as soon as you open the door to the apartment. your tone leaves no room for argument, and to his credit, Noah looks dutifully cowed. he stalks ahead of you obediently and settles on the bathroom counter, hands under his thighs, as you grab an ice pack from your freezer and wrap it in a paper towel.

it’s almost comical. he’s so fucking tall he’s blocking out the vanity lights, and it gives him the illusion of having a halo. a bloody, bruised angel.

“wraps off,” you snap your fingers and point. “you want to do it, or should I?”

“I can do it,” he replies. 

he untucks his hands from beneath his thighs, loosening and slowly unwrapping the tape securing them. neither of you mention the fact that his knuckles are red and raw from delivering so many punches. instead, you turn the sink on, guiding his hands under the steady stream of warm water and watching as it runs red, his blood circling the drain. you know it must sting with the cuts speckling his skin, but he doesn’t give any indication that it does. not even when he rubs soap over them and shoves his hands under the faucet. he dries them, holding first one hand and then the other out to you as you dab at the cuts on his knuckles with hydrogen peroxide, disinfecting them.

he could remain neutral the entire time — not so much as a clench of his jaw, a huff of breath, or the slightest twitch of his hands. he could be still as a statue, the best sort of patient, saying nothing and just letting you tend to his injuries, but then again, what would be the fun in that?

no, he plays it up a little, entertains his sweet fantasy where he groans and whimpers just to see you visibly react, freeze up a little. maybe he could garner a little sympathy… at best, you’d want to kiss it better.

you hate how well it works.

“I know what you’re doing.” you narrow your eyes at him as you squeeze antibiotic cream out of the tube for him to apply. “cut it out.”

“cut what out?”

you shoot him a pointed look. 

“okay, okay,” he concedes.

you finish up with his hands, wanting to treat the cuts on his face next when you realize there’s no way you’re going to be able to reach, not with him sitting on the counter.

you tap his thigh. “can you get down on your knees for me?”

the second it leaves your lips, you immediately regret it. it wasn’t meant to be suggestive at all, but, oh well, you can’t unsay it now. your eyes screw shut in embarrassment, and you know if you locked eyes with yourself in the mirror your cheeks would be flushed pink. you just gave him so many openings.

“on my knees?” he quirks an eyebrow, and you want to wipe that stupid smirk off his face. he tilts his head and chuckles a little, his eyes flickering back and forth between yours as a challenge. 

“you heard me.” you forge ahead with a fake confidence and boldness that feels foreign to you.

he pushes off the counter — you feel so small when he straightens up to his full height — and drops to his knees in front of you, a gleam of mischief sparkling in his eyes. nervous butterflies flutter about in your stomach. “anything else you want me to do for you while I’m down here?”

“get your mind out of the gutter.”

“I don’t know, sweetheart, I think you like it right where it is.” he smiles at you cheekily. 

you want to deck him. 

“you’re a pain in my ass, you know that?” you huff.

“you’re cute when you’re flustered.” 

you dab at his split lip with an alcohol soaked cotton ball, reveling in the wince it draws from him. “does that hurt?” 

“ah, jesus—” a soft, pained groan leaves him. 

you take that as a yes. “good.” 

Noah laughs breathily. serves him right, he supposes. 

“now stay still,” you assert, cupping his jaw in your hands.

now he may have taken a few punches, but he’s dizzy for an altogether different reason as you cradle his face in your hands, disinfecting his cuts with the utmost care. big brown almond eyes observe you through long lashes, and the look on his face reads like he wouldn’t be altogether surprised if you told him you’d hung the sun, moon, and stars in the sky. 

he’s suddenly conscious of how utterly enamored he must look. 

he’s new to this, being cared for, but he thinks he could get used to the way you do. everything about you tells him to become familiar. you said it yourself, you’re not going anywhere. 

it’s all he can think about. how you felt pressed up against him in bed that night. the way your tender hands wrap his before every fight and you press a soft lipstick kiss to his knuckles. how you’ve been the first to celebrate his every win. 

he’s in love with you. 

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes, breaking the quiet the two of you have fallen into.

his fingers trail the backs of your thighs, his touch reverent. with a gentle tug, he draws you closer, and you find yourself placing a hand on his head for support, threading through his soft hair as his fingers push up the fabric of your shirt and his lips brush against the bare skin of your stomach. goosebumps follow in his wake, and you shiver involuntarily, his kiss featherlight and ticklish.

you hum, stone-faced even as you feel your resolve crumbling, the anger slowly being replaced by a different kind of heat. guiding his head back by tugging the roots, you instruct him to let you work, trying not to dwell too long on the sweet, pleasured sound he makes at your firm grip. 

he sits quietly as you settle back into brooding silence, the air in the room thick with tension and your lingering frustration. you’re still livid with him, but the sight of his injuries does soften something within you. the simple act of caring for him alone speaks volumes.

bloodied cotton balls pile up in the trash, and he looks so much more like your Noah now; the one who makes fun of you every time you jump during a horror movie and clutch at his hoodie. the one who surprises you with a home-cooked meal when you don’t have the energy for anything but bed. your roommate, Noah, and the soft, genuine side beneath the hard, life-worn exterior that not everyone gets to see.

there’s no more dried blood now that he’s cleaned up, just hints of bruising starting to show, painting his skin with a tinge of purple, and a bit of swelling.

you hand him the ice pack, your hand covering his and bringing it gently to his face. “hold that for me,” you instruct him. he obeys, wincing at the coolness of it bracing his skin.

you’re trying to remember you have an awfully good reason to be mad at him, but it’s no use. you can feel your resistance crumbling with his stupid big brown eyes gazing sweetly up at you, anger slowly giving way to a fluttering in your stomach that you’re trying so hard to ignore. a mixture of regret and something else swims in their depths, but it’s the something else... it’s near impossible to stay mad when he looks at you like that — all tender and startlingly affectionate, as if he’s completely smitten — practically pleading with you. 

it makes your heart clench in spite of itself.

“stop looking at me like that,” you grumble, trying and failing to sound irritated.

“how am I looking at you?” he asks innocently.

“you know how.”

an uncomfortable silence blankets the two of you, the weight of it especially heavy on Noah.

“I’m sorry.” 

there’s a sincere remorse in his eyes as he apologizes for the fight, for going against your wishes, for causing you more worry and anxiety. he knows he messed up, and the guilt is written all over his face.

you let out a sigh, your body deflating slightly as all traces of anger dissipate, replaced instead by resigned acceptance. it’s not like you don’t know why he did it. 

you can even put yourself in his shoes and go as far as to understand why he felt he had to.

the pained expression on his face deepens as he sees your lower lip tremble despite all your efforts to maintain your composure. he reaches up, his thumb brushing against your lip tentatively in a soothing gesture.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, “I know I messed up. I should have told you. I just... I didn’t want you to worry.”

“well I do worry about you.”

“I know, and I’m sorry.” 

“you don’t need to keep apologizing. I just—” you sigh, “I really fucking care about you, alright? so I’m going to worry,” and sigh again. “would’ve helped if you’d at least been honest with me.” 

“I’m sorr—” he goes to tell you again.

before you can think better of it, you cut him off with a kiss mid apology just to shut him up, effectively silencing him with the delicate press of your lips to his own. his body tenses as he registers the unexpected kiss, your mouth moving against his as if desperate to make him understand the mess of your tangled emotions. it’s a burst of pent-up frustration and longing, surrender and connection, and as he melts into it, his apologies turn into sweet sounds against your mouth. 

mindful of his still-tender split lip, you consciously keep a gentle touch, but the lightness of your intentions is quickly overshadowed by the fervor of his response. 

when you try to pull away, Noah refuses to let you go, his hand cradling the back of your neck to hold you in place as he deepens the kiss.

there’s a desperate need to it, a hunger to be impossibly close to you that transcends even the lingering pain of his injury. the faint taste of copper on his tongue and the occasional sting when his mouth works against yours are distant thoughts, overwhelmed by the sheer urgency and intensity of the moment. 

with his hands gripping your hips, he pulls you down fully onto his lap, unwilling to let even the smallest space remain between your bodies. all your attempts to distance yourself are met with stubborn refusal.

“Noah. you’re hurt.”

“I don’t care,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice husky with longing. Noah’s tongue explores your mouth hungrily, reveling in the taste of you. “I’ve wanted this for too long.”

the truth of his words resonates with you, a quiet admission that mirrors your own feelings. you’ve longed for this connection, this moment of intimacy with Noah, for longer than you’re willing to admit. 

you want him just as badly as he wants you, and there’s no use denying it any longer. you’re done denying yourself a perfectly good thing simply because you’re scared. you could’ve lost him today, and all you would’ve had to show for it would’ve been the knot of anxiety in your stomach that never let you explore anything more.

now, with his hands on your hips and his mouth on yours, you can feel yourself giving in. surrendering to the attraction that’s been growing between you, your body against his as your fingers curl against his chest, fisting his shirt in your hand. 

the taste of him, the feel of him, is intoxicating. all thoughts of stopping or pulling away vanish from your mind, replaced only by the overpowering need to have him in any and every capacity. 

a soft moan escapes your lips as his mouth moves down your jawline, leaving a trail of hot kisses in its wake. he moves further down, his lips finding the sensitive spot on your neck. 

you shift on his lap, inadvertently rubbing against him, and the feeling of the bulge in his pants makes your breath hitch. facing him, with a knee on either side of his hips, you’re fully seated when his hard, thick length presses between your thighs.

oh.

you try to focus on something, anything, only to find that the heat between you is all you can think about. the intimacy of your position only worsens the throbbing between your legs.

his mouth breaks away from your skin, his breath warm against your neck. “you feel that?” he whispers, his voice thick with want. “this is what you do to me.”

the sudden sensation of him pressing against you sends a shiver through your body. you can feel the hardness of him beneath you, the undeniable proof of his desire, and it makes you dizzy.

something in you snaps, and you give in with an experimental rock of your hips, only all too satisfied with yourself when you feel him respond with a low hiss. he tightens his grip on you, the muscles in his thighs tensing beneath you. 

“god, you drive me crazy. fuck,” he breathes out a curse. “do that again.”

you repeat the motion, the feeling of you grinding down onto his lap making him groan low in his throat. “yeah,” he whispers breathlessly, “just like that.” 

Noah lets out a growl, rising to meet you halfway. his hands on your hips guide your movements, helping you find a rhythm that has both of you panting with need.

the friction is exhilarating, sending sparks of pleasure through your body. Noah’s eyes are half-lidded, his breaths coming in short gasps as he watches you through lowered lashes. the feeling of your body against his makes him shudder, his fingers digging into you.

he tilts his head back, exposing his throat as he gasps for air, and you use the opportunity to lavish his beautifully inked neck with kisses. you finally get to take a bite out of his apple tattoo like you’ve been wanting to for so long. 

“jesus christ,” he mutters, his voice rough and strained.

he can’t get enough of you, and apparently you can’t get enough of him either. the feeling is mutual. 

“Noah,” you gasp, “I need you.” and the yearning in your voice, the admission of how much you want him, it’s all he’s been waiting for. 

“say it again,” he whispers, his lips brushing against your ear. “tell me you need me.”

as Noah’s lips move down your neck, pressing lingering kisses to your collarbone, you can feel the rough edge of his scabbed lip against your body. goosebumps prickle your skin with the contrast between the softness of his mouth and the slight scratchiness of his wound.

“I need you. please, Noah.” the sound of your voice when you whisper those words to him, raw and needy, goes straight to his core. he wants you just as much, if not more.

“you have me.” his hands on your hips move lower as they cup your ass, holding you tight against him, your body flush against his. “you always have me,” he adds softly.

“I need you inside me,” you whine. 

“god, I need to be inside you,” he replies, but still fights to maintain control, nuzzling his face into your neck. “I don’t know how much longer I can hold back.”

“I don’t want you to.” 

the groan he lets out is strangled. 

you’re about to have sex on the bathroom floor, but you can’t bring yourself to care. all you can think about is that you can’t ditch the layers between the two of you soon enough. so you’re reaching into his pants, clumsily trying your best to push them down, and while he’s very appreciative of the attention, thoroughly enjoying the eagerness of your actions, he can’t help but notice how frantic and rushed you’re being. wanting to savor this time with you, he stops you before you can go any further, gently grasping your wrists as he looks up at you with an amused smile.

“slow down, sweetheart,” he says, his voice low and a bit breathless, strained as he fights against the haze of desire. “we don’t have to rush this.” he looks at you, pupils blown with lust. “I want to do this right. let’s go to the bedroom, okay?”

your arms encircle his neck, and he adjusts his grip, making sure you’re secure before hoisting you off the floor. your legs automatically wrap around his waist, and you cling to him tightly as he holds you close, one hand on your hip for support as the other slides under your thighs.

he carries you from the bathroom to the bedroom like that before laying you down gently on the bed, his body hovering above yours as he looks down at you, taking in the sight of you beneath him.

you don’t waste any time, your fingers clutching at the hem of his black tank top as you try to push him to take it off. Noah complies with your insistent tugging, sitting up a bit to pull it over his head in a smooth motion before shucking it somewhere off to the side, revealing the toned muscles of his chest and abdomen.

“someone’s impatient.” 

your fingers itch with the urge to touch his bare skin, and your hands waste no time in skirting the lines of his tattoos, the feeling of him underneath your palms only driving your desire higher. he hardly gives you a moment to appreciate the view, though, as he quickly shifts his attention to your clothing.

“you’re one to talk,” you tease, your eyes following his hands as he makes quick work of removing your clothes. he’s efficient and thorough, his fingers nimble as he strips you bare, exposing your body to his hungry gaze. “and anyway, can you blame me?”

his eyes wander over your now-naked form, taking in every inch of you. “you’re right, I can’t blame you at all.” his hands roam over your skin, tracing the curves and dips of your body. “you’re beautiful.” he swallows thickly. “you look so goddamn good laid out underneath me.” 

you can feel the heat rising in your cheeks, shy under Noah’s stare. “not fair,” you grumble with a playful pout. it feels unbalanced, you completely naked while he’s still partially clothed. you reach for his waistband, wanting to even the score, to take his pants off and have him be as exposed as you are.

they follow the same path as his top, falling somewhere you don’t see because you’re too busy staring at Noah. the sight of him makes your mouth go dry as you take in every inch of him. every line, every muscle, every tiny imperfection… all make way for his perfect cock. every inch of exposed skin seems to call out to be worshiped, to be adored. 

and yet, even as this all-consuming need grips you, you find yourself simultaneously caught in the throes of an equally powerful, immediate craving. you ache to close the distance between you, to press your body against his, to lose yourself in the intoxicating warmth and intimacy that would come with him being inside of you. it’s a maddening conflict of impulses — the desire to worship him reverently versus the urgency to possess him completely. 

luckily, Noah makes the decision for you. “condoms?”

“top drawer.”

as you direct him to your bedside table, he reaches over and grabs one. he opens the wrapper with practiced ease, sheathing himself before crawling onto the bed and settling back over top of you. 

“you sure about this?” he asks. he must mistake your quietness for hesitancy.

“yeah, I just—I want to ride you.” 

his eyes widen briefly with surprise as you tell him what you want. the thought of you riding him, setting the pace and taking control, has him biting back a groan. his cock twitches against you. 

“yeah?” he rasps, his voice rough. “this is how you get your revenge, huh? gonna make me fall apart underneath you? make me lose my damn mind?”

“you deserve it,” you say sickeningly sweetly. 

he isn’t fooled, but he wouldn’t deny you. you can do your worst as far as he’s concerned. 

he lets you push him to the side as you settle over top of him with a leg on either side of his waist, a gasp leaving your lips when his cock nudges at your entrance. the fact that you’re so wet helps him slide in a little easier as you guide in the head, taking first one inch and then another and another.

the stretch burns, and your cheeks heat at the thought that you’ll feel him for days to come. 

“oh my god.” your hands brace against his chest as you continue your slow descent along his cock, your breath catching in your throat when you bottom out. “you’re so deep.” you take a second to adjust, to just feel him. 

“fuck you’re tight,” Noah’s eyes screw shut, head craned as far back as possible, “god, you feel so fucking good.” 

you take in the sight of him beneath you like the fucking eye candy it is, broken sounds leaving both of your lips as you make up your mind to move, his skin warm under your palms as you circle torturously slow over top of him. “feel so full.”

you feel it all as — every ridge, every vein — as your thighs meet his again and again, your cunt clinging to him with every undulation of your hips. 

“yeah?” he manages to get the words out, his brown eyes now watching you intently as you move on top of him and your every reaction plays out on your face. “you like that?” 

you grind against him in answer. he groans, the subtle motion of your hips driving him insane. sparks of pleasure burst behind your eyelids as your clit meets his groin with every movement. 

trying to urge you to move faster, he grips your hips, letting out a soft huff of protest when you still his hands, his eyes darkening frustratedly as you keep the pace intentionally slow. he may be used to being in control in the ring, but right now he’s at your mercy. 

he knows what you’re doing, he can see the hint of payback in your eyes. “come on,” he mutters, “you’re torturing me on purpose. I know you are.”

you punish him by rocking down against him, nice and deep, the way he practically splutters like music to your ears. 

“now who’s impatient?” you lean down to murmur, “don’t rush me, baby.”

despite his natural inclination to take charge, you can tell he’s trying to rein in his impatience. it’s a unique kind of satisfaction, seeing the ‘big, bad fighter’ willingly submit to your lead. he’s stronger, bigger, could easily flip you over and assert his dominance, and that knowledge only adds to the pleasure of having him compliant and under your control. 

he could move you like a rag doll if he wanted, but he doesn’t. 

he wants to please you, enjoys the feeling of you taking charge, and he’s willing to endure the sweet torment you’re putting him through.

it doesn’t mean he won’t whine about it though. 

“please.” beneath you, he looks almost vulnerable, his big frame and muscles quivering with need. “you don’t have have to torture yourself, too, baby.”

you can’t help but notice the way his hands are everywhere — on your hips, your stomach, his fingers greedily tracing over your curves. he doesn’t seem able to keep his hands still, as if he’s drinking in every inch of you he can touch, committing it all to memory. 

“aw, is that what you think I’m doing?”

the intensity in his eyes as he watches your face, drinking in every twitch of your lips and flutter of your lashes, is palpable. there’s a penance in his actions; it’s almost as if he’s trying to atone for his transgressions through the sheer force of his adoration, hoping to erase his guilt one reverential caress at a time. his hands are everywhere, a physical manifestation of his hunger, his need, his sincere contrition.

“I’ll tell you what you can do, baby.” 

leaning in close, you guide his eager hands to palm the soft, full curves of your breasts. his fingers tentatively explore the supple flesh, kneading gently as you moan in pleasure at his touch. before too long, his lips brush against you, pressing delicate kisses before flicking his tongue over your sensitive nipple, eliciting soft moans from your lips that only sharpen when he captures it between his teeth. his tongue smooths across the pebbled peak before reluctantly releasing your breast with a sigh as you move your body, your inner walls tightening around him. 

he watches you struggle to find a stable grip, your hands fluttering against his chest and the sheets, seeking purchase when he reaches out and offers you his hands to hold onto.

“here,” he says softly, “use me.”

his fingers splay open and wait for you to interlace yours with them, an invitation to use them for balance as you ride him. he knows you need leverage, and he wants to make sure you have it. 

taking his hands, you savor the feeling of his skin against yours, the fact that your fingers are intertwined making this all the more visceral and intense. with him supporting you, you have the stability you need to speed up your movements, creating a delicious friction that has you both spiraling closer to the brink of pleasure.

his cock drags against that spot that has you seeing stars, and beneath you, Noah groans as you clench around him. as if on instinct, his hips jerk in search of that same spot that will have your pussy tightening around him again. 

his gaze is locked on your face, captivated by the vision of you unraveling, his own pleasure heightened by his view. he loves the way you look like this, with your head thrown back, eyes closed and your mouth open in a silent moan.

you’re so close, so sensitive that your legs want to snap shut but can’t with his waist in between them. at this point, you’re dripping all over the sheets, your arousal coating his thighs. 

“want some help, baby?” 

you make an unintelligible noise that he takes as permission. 

permission to lift his hips off the bed to meet you. 

you gasp sharply. 

“yeah? right there?” he snaps his hips up into you harshly. 

permission to flip your positions so you’re now in missionary as he hammers into you, hitting your sweet spot with every thrust. 

“I’m gonna take such good care of you, baby, I promise.”

you practically go liquid beneath him, only able to hold on to him for dear life as your hands scratch light trails along his back, grip his shoulder blades,... unable to settle until they’re around his neck. your face falls into his shoulder as you hug him close.

“Noah—” you whine. 

“I know, baby, I know. me too. I’ve got you.” he murmurs sweet promises. “I take care of you, remember? I’ll always take care of you.”

it should be embarrassing, being reduced to this panting, pathetic mess, but it’s the both of you. Noah’s no better off, and god, together you are a sight to behold.

he tries to muffle his sounds into your skin. his face, which was just smushed against yours, sinks into the curve of your neck. the kiss he drops there turns into a soft bite (sure to leave a hickey), a way to try and quell the sensations coursing through his body, but it’s difficult to stay quiet with every thrust home into your tight, wet heat.

“you’re so good for me, so fucking good around me. fucking made for me,” and when he grunts the words out, he sounds as fucked as you feel. “can’t believe I get to have you like this.”

his lithe fingers move between your thighs to rub at your clit, calluses deliciously rough against you as every circle of his fingers pushes you nearer and nearer the edge in tandem with his brutal thrusts. he can feel it in the way you squeeze his cock. 

the sounds he’s making aren’t helping, having given up all hope of trying to play it cool. grunts and growls and groans and moans rise in pitch and volume until they reach their crescendo, you right alongside him. 

you cling to him, dreading the moment this ends and he pulls out, leaving you bereft and aching. so you hold on, locking your legs around his waist in a last-ditch effort to keep him close. 

“you can have me all you want,” you finally manage to gasp out belatedly as you lay there panting, spent and quivering in the aftermath.

“isn’t that sweet?” he croons into your ear, albeit also a little breathlessly. “you been thinking about it? ‘bout all the ways you’d let me have you? starting with right now when you came on my cock?” he takes your lobe between his teeth.

you whine.

“now we both need a shower.” Noah laughs, the look he gives you turning mischievous. “I think I still have some making up to do, huh? and, you know, since I can have you all that I want…”

・❥・

it’s with a great deal of reluctance that you untangle from Noah the next morning, but sex doesn’t change Noah’s financial predicament. he may be stubborn when it comes to involving you any further, but you can’t stand idly by. you won’t. 

after you’ve gotten dressed and grabbed your things, you glance back towards the bed where Noah is sleeping and let yourself admire him as he lies there, so peaceful and at ease as the morning sunshine bathes his torso. you can’t help but smile to yourself as you lean down, the previous night still fresh in your mind when you press a kiss to his forehead and whisper a soft “I’ll be back soon” before sneaking out of the room and closing the door behind you.

with determined resolve, you grab your car keys and head out. your mind races with possibilities — maybe you could negotiate somehow? take out a loan to cover his debts? 

but no sooner do you slide into the driver’s seat and start the car than the click of a gun’s safety startles you. “don’t you fucking move.” cold steel presses into your temple. “seems like your pretty boy fighter requires some extra motivation since he won’t do what he’s told.”

so maybe negotiating isn’t an option…