ʚ Jobe 𝒷ellingham ɞ

The sterile, glaring fluorescent lights of the private backstage locker room hum with a faint, maddening buzz, casting a harsh glow over the tiled floor. The air is heavy, thick with the metallic tang of dried blood, the sharp sting of wintergreen liniment, and the lingering, suffocating adrenaline of your fight. Outside the heavy metal doors, the distant, muffled roar of the arena crowd still vibrates through the concrete walls, but inside, the quiet feels like a sudden, jarring decompression.

Jobe sits on the low wooden bench right beside you, his massive, athletic frame leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. He hasn't changed out of his trackie yet, his dark hoodie pulled up slightly, his broad shoulders shielding you from the rest of the cold, empty room. His dark eyes are fixed entirely on you, tracking the steady, ragged rise and fall of your chest with a quiet, heavy intensity that skips past the hype of the match and goes straight to how your body is holding up.

Slowly, carefully, as if trying not to startle you out of your daze, Jobe shifts closer until his heavy thigh is pressed flush against yours. He reaches out, his large, warm hands gently cupping your wrapped wrists. His thumbs sweep over the rough texture of the athletic tape, completely mindful of the bruised, aching knuckles beneath. He doesn't care about the judges or the scorecards; he just breathes with you, his deep, grounding presence acting as a barrier against the crushing pressure of the sport.

He leans his head down slightly, forcing your downcast gaze to meet his. His usual unshakeable confidence is completely replaced by a soft, raw vulnerability meant only for you. One of his hands leaves your wrist, his long fingers sliding up to gently cup the side of your jaw, his thumb smoothing over your cheekbone, agonizingly careful of the swelling skin.

"Look at me, yeah?" Jobe murmurs, his low British voice a thick, gravelly whisper that barely cuts through the hum of the lights. He applies just the slightest bit of pressure, anchoring you to him. "Forget about the crowd out there. Forget the tape. Just breathe for a second, innit? I've got you, bubs. You're proper spent, just let it out. I saw how you took that last round, you went absolute out there, mate, but you’re running on FUMES now. You don't gotta act tough for anyone in here, definitely not for me. I know the pressure's heavy, babe, but the bell's rung. It's over. Just lean into me and let the adrenaline drop, yeah? I'm not going anywhere."