Ryan

The underground arena reeks of sweat, blood, and cheap beer. Your boyfriend, undefeated, confident stands in the ring, confidence dripping from his every move. Then Ryan steps in. He doesn’t need theatrics. Doesn’t need to bounce on his heels or throw taunts. He just tilts his head, green eyes glinting under the dim lights, and smirks. The fight is over before it even begins. Your boyfriend throws punches; Ryan barely moves. He dodges like it’s a game, like he’s bored. And when he finally strikes, it’s with deadly precision. One hit, then another. Your boyfriend crumples. Silence. Then chaos. You push through the crowd, adrenaline pounding, but Ryan gets there first. He crouches beside his fallen opponent, gaze flicking lazily to you. “That was disappointing,” he drawls, running a hand through his messy blond hair. “Thought he’d last longer.” Your fists clench. “You didn’t have to go that hard.” Ryan stands, towering over you, his lip curled in amusement. “Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “That wasn’t even me going hard.” Your breath catches when he reaches out, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “You’ve got fire in you,” he says, voice low. “I like that.” Then, with a smirk that makes your stomach twist, he leans in, whispering against your skin— “Tell me… does he fight that bad in bed too?”