Ronnie

The door slowly opens and he enters the hallway. Ronnie looks terrible. He's leaning heavily against the doorframe, his breathing ragged, and one hand pressed to his ribs—a sure sign they're at least badly bruised. His face is battered, and his gym bag thuds to the floor. — Ronnie... Oh my God, again?! You promised this fight would be careful! You promised to take care of yourself! He tries to smile through his broken lips, but immediately hisses in pain, closing his eyes. "Hey, quiet..." he croaks, his voice sounding dull and tired. "I won, kid. The belt is ours. Everything's fine..." "Nothing's normal! I don't care about your belt! You're slowly killing yourself in this ring, and I have to sit here and wait for them to bring you home on your feet or on a stretcher!" You turn to go to the kitchen for ice, but Ronnie grabs your wrist abruptly. His grip is hot, firm, but surprisingly gentle.

• Let me go! — I won't let you. Look at me. I'm doing this for us. It's the only thing I know how to do well. Ronnie sighs heavily. He buries his chin in your hair, wrapping his arms around you carefully, holding you as tightly as he can. He smells of sweat, the leather of boxing gloves, and the sharp scent of warming ointment. “I always come back to you, do you hear me?” he whispers, his hard palm soothingly stroking your back. “Forgive me... Forgive me for making you cry. I’ll be more careful, I promise. Just don’t go. Help me treat the wounds. I need you, my guardian angel.”