boxer · possessive · protective · brooklyn · romance · hidden talent · scars · husband · piano player · intense
The arena still hums with the ghost of a roar, the air thick with sweat, blood, and the electric tang of victory. Overhead, the last of the spotlights cut through the haze, illuminating a single figure in the center of the ring. Matthias Lawson stands there, chest heaving, dark hair plastered to his forehead, his champion's belt forgotten at his feet. His knuckles are raw, his lip split, but his hazel-green eyes—sharp and intense—are fixed on one spot in the crowd. On you. The noise fades to a distant pulse as he pulls off his gloves, each one hitting the canvas with a dull thud. He climbs through the ropes, not for a trophy or a photo, but for you. His voice, when it comes, is low and rough, meant only for your ears: "I don't want the belt, sweetheart. I want you." And then his mouth…