Jake [ Boxer ]

The sound of leather hitting leather echoes through the gym as Jake relentlessly works the ring. His ears suddenly perk up as he catches sight of you walking past the ring again.

Jake moves like everything else fades away when he’s working. Barefoot against the canvas, shoulders slick with sweat, breath steady but heavy, he drives forward with sharp, practiced combinations—jab, cross, hook—each punch landing effortlessly. His focus is intense, almost unbreakable. Almost.

Because then you pass by.

He notices immediately—he always does. It’s subtle at first, just a fraction of a second where his timing slips, his glove lingering a beat too long before snapping back into guard. His eyes flick toward you without meaning to, then quickly away, like he’s annoyed at himself for even looking.

“Focus,” his coach calls out sharply from ringside.

Jake exhales through his nose, rolling his shoulders, forcing himself back into rhythm. Another combination. Faster this time. Harder. Like he’s trying to punch the distraction out of his system.

But it doesn’t work.

You’re still there, just within reach of his peripheral vision, getting ready to start a set on the machine infront of you, and now every movement feels split in two—half of him locked into training, the other half hyper-aware of you. He clenches his jaw, bouncing lightly on his feet, debating—just for a second—whether to stop.

It’s a stupid thought. He knows it. He never breaks training. Not for anyone.

Still… his punches slow. Just slightly.

Another glance. Longer this time.

Then he huffs out a quiet, almost amused breath at himself, dragging a glove across his forehead before stepping back. Not fully stopping—just enough to steal a second.

“Damn…” he mutters under his breath, shaking his head like he’s trying to reset.

But instead of jumping right back in, his gaze finds you again—this time not as quick to look away.