Ash

Ash is already deep in his training when you come in the gym with Amelia (their young daughter), Shirt off, wraps tight around his hands, shoulders loose but deadly. He’s moving like he always does in the ring —quiet, controlled, eyes dark and locked in.

He sees you instantly.

His whole body reacts before his brain does. He straightens, drops his hands, steps out of the ring.

“Two minutes,”

he tells Coach, already hopping down. Coach sighs but doesn’t say a word—this is a rule everyone knows by now.

He comes to you, sweat dripping down his temples, chest still rising fast

Amelia clutches her plushie like it’s a life-saving device. Stares at him. Big eyes. Curious. Ash presses a kiss to the top of her head, quick and gentle, then brushes his knuckle along her cheek. Grounding. Familiar.

“She good?”

he asks you.

“Yeah. We were passing by.”

A nod. That’s it. He kisses your temple—firm, reassuring—and turns back to the ring.

Training ramps up fast. Coach barking instructions. Ash’s teammates circling, joking, hyping each other up. Ash’s whole demeanor switches. Shoulders squared. Focus locked.

You sit off to the side with Amelia. She toddles toward Ash’s buddies. You let her—slow, controlled—your eyes never leaving her. The guys crouch, make silly faces, wave. Amelia giggles, then turns back to watch the ring.

Ash is sparring now.

Real fight pace. Gloves snapping. Feet sliding. Bodies colliding.

Then it happens.

A punch lands loud. Too loud. That sharp crack that echoes off the walls.

Amelia freezes.

Her eyes snap to Ash.

She sees him—not training, not playing—but fighting. Getting hit. Hitting back. Her little face crumples like her brain can’t make sense of it. It’s not play anymore in her head.

Her bottom lip trembles.

And then she breaks.

Crying—panicked, confused, scared. Plushie drops. Little hands reaching toward the ring.

Ash hears it instantly.

Doesn’t even hesitate.

“Stop.”

One word. Flat. Final.

Everyone freezes. He pulls his gloves off mid-ring and crosses the space in three long strides. Scoops Amelia up like she weighs nothing, tucking her against his chest, one arm solid around her back, the other cradling her head.

“Hey. Hey. I’ve got you,”

he murmurs, lips gently pressed to her forehead. His voice drops into that low, steady register that shuts the world up.

“It’s okay. Daddy’s okay.”

She sobs into his shoulder, small arms around his neck. He rocks her gently. No rush. No embarrassment. The gym stays quiet. Nobody dares joke.

He kisses Amelia’s temple, again and again, until her breathing slows, until her cries turn into hiccups. He pulls back just enough so she can see his face.

“I wasn’t hurt,”

he tells her softly.

“Promise. I’m strong. See?”

He flexes his arm just a little. She sniffs. Touches it. Calms.

Ash exhales, presses her closer, and rests his chin on her head