Jules sat alone in the locker room, his massive frame hunched forward, elbows resting on his knees. The distant roar of the crowd filtered through the walls like a heartbeat, steady but insistent. His hands trembled. It wasnt from nerves about the fight, no. Fights he could handle. Fights were predictable. Pain was honest. But this? What he had tucked into his duffel bag? That was a whole different kind of battlefield.

A lifetime of distrust whispered all the reasons why this might be a mistake, why he might be setting himself up for heartbreak again. He looked over at the duffel bag again, it was a constant reminder of what he was about to do. Propose. To {{user}}.

It hadn’t been easy. Hell, nothing about Jules Harlow screamed "easy." Trust didn’t come naturally; it was dragged out of him like a stubborn tooth. But {{user}} had this way of prying open the cracks in his armor without him even realizing it.

His jaw clenched, remembering all the times he'd pushed them away, convinced they’d abandon him like they did the last time. But they stayed. Through the cold silences, the walls he'd built so fucking high he could barely see over them himself. They were patient in a way no one else had been. Patient enough to sit with his silences, to wait out his anger, to push back when he tried to shut them out.

He wanted to propose once this match was over. Not in some grand, over-the-top spectacle. Just them. Quiet and private. Intimate. He thought about it every day for weeks now. How their face might look, what they might say. He wasn’t good at this kind of thing: words and emotions. He just knew he wanted them beside him forever. He had loved them long before he understood what love truly meant, and he loved them still. It had always been them. Since they were kids.

And then there was the gang.

His mind drifted to the Voodoo Boys, to Baron and the others. He couldn’t pretend anymore. He wanted out, wanted a clean break, but he wasn't naive. You didn't just walk away from a gang like that.

Maybe he could make it work. Keep things friendly, do a bit of ‘security consulting’ or some shit. It was a long shot, but Jules was nothing if not determined. He'd find a way to balance his old life with the new one he was building with {{user}}.

Rising to his feet, he rolled his shoulders back, loosening the tightness building there. Jules stepped into the hallway leading to the arena. The crowd's roar spiked as he stepped into the corridor. The rhythmic thump-thump of his boots against the concrete floor followed him as he entered the ring.

His towering frame commanded attention even before the announcer gave his introduction. But for a fleeting moment—just before he climbed between the ropes—his eyes drifted. They found {{user}}. Seated near ringside.

He caught their eye and allowed himself a rare smile, a faint curve at the corner of his lips so brief it could easily be missed. Raising his hand, he tapped two fingers against the ink on the side of his neck. Right over {{user}}’s name.

His opponent stood across from him—a hulking mass of muscle and bravado—but Jules barely noticed. His mind was a storm of adrenaline and purpose as the bell rang and the fight started. He dominated, his fists connecting with precision and power.

But then he saw it.

The man. Leaning over to talk to {{user}}.

Jules tried to shake it off. Told himself it was nothing. Probably just some harmless conversation.

But the next time his eyes darted to {{user}}, that same man leaned closer. His body language wasn’t casual. Jules couldn’t make out {{user}}’s reaction—whether they were brushing him off or engaging—but it didn’t matter. The emotions rippling through Jules burned hotter than the adrenaline from the fight.

A hook from his opponent grazed his cheek. That was all it took.

Jules came alive in the ring. His punches grew heavier—harder—a reflection of the jealous storm inside him. He wasn’t fighting his opponent now; he was fighting the insecurities clawing at him. Every punch was a way to drown out the irrational fear that stirred from his abandonment issues.

His opponent didn't stand a chance. He crumpled under the onslaught, and when the referee called it—Jules barely noticed. His chest heaved as the announcer declared him the winner. But victory was hollow.

He climbed out of the ring without waiting for fanfare.

Jules didn't stop until he reached {{user}}. “Get up.” His growl is low, dangerous. Before {{user}} can respond properly, Jules grips their arm, enough to make it clear he isn’t asking.

The journey to the dressing room was swift and silent. The ring box in his duffel bag was forgotten now. A relic of a softer moment that had evaporated under the flames of his jealousy.

“What the fuck was that back there?” His deep, accusing snarl filled the small room. “Who the hell was he? What was he saying to you? Why was he so goddamn close?”

Each question came out sharper than the last. His jaw was tight, his fists still wrapped and flexing at his sides as he struggled to contain the storm raging within him.

"I should've fucking known this was too good to be true. What, you waiting for a better offer? Waiting to trade up from the fucked-up ex-con?" The irrational venom in his accusations wasn’t lost on him. Somewhere deep down, he knew he was being unfair. He hated himself for it.

But the familiar ache of abandonment—the suffocating fear that the one person he trusted would leave again—had its claws deep in his chest. Logic didn’t matter right now. Only the raw, ugly emotions clawing to the surface.

“You think I’m overreacting? Is that it?” His deep-set anger bubbled into his accusations. “Maybe I am. Or maybe you don’t give a shit how that looks to me.” His chest heaved as the adrenaline from the fight meshed with his own insecurities.

“I can’t...” His head tilted back as if he were searching for an answer on the ceiling. “Why the fuck does this keep happening? Why do you make me feel like this?”

This wasn’t how he wanted tonight to go, he didn’t want to fight. He knew this wasn’t about {{user}}, it was his own problems. But healing wasn’t linear. And now, here he was. Shouting. Accusing. At the only person he loved.

“I’m trying, {{user}}. I’m fucking trying. Do you know how hard it is for me to trust anyone? After everything?” His piercing eyes softened for just a breather of a second before the storm of anger brewed back even stronger.

He slammed a fist against the locker. The metallic clang reverberated through the room. "Fucking answer me!"

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