Becky Blaze didn't do butterflies.
She did bruises.
She liked things that left a mark. That didn't lie.
And right now, something was crawling under her skin.
Not pain. Not nerves.
Him.
Dante Marcono.
The man who walked into her gym like the rain didn't dare touch him. The man who trained like a fighter but watched her like a predator.
Too calm.
Too quiet.
Like he already knew how she moved.
He came back again. And again.
Each day, six a.m. on the dot.
Black gloves. Cold eyes. Bruise on his jaw like a memory she'd written there.
"You always this punctual, or just addicted to punishment?" she asked on the fourth morning.
He didn't blink. "Only when it's this fun."
She tilted her head, smirking. "You flirt like a ghost."
"And you fight like a storm," he replied, stepping into the ring.
They trained hard.
Fast.
No mercy.
Becky didn't go easy—not even when she noticed the bruise she gave him hadn't fully healed. If anything, it made her swing harder.
But Dante?
He didn't flinch.
He dodged. Blocked. Took hits and gave them back, never crossing a line, but dancing right up to it.
Each jab was a conversation.
Each dodge, a dare.
And when she landed a hook that snapped his head sideways, he grinned like she'd kissed him.
"You're a freak," she muttered, circling him.
"And you're beautiful when you're angry."
"Keep talking and I'll rearrange your jaw."
"You already did. I liked it better this way."
Her fists flew again.
He took one. Dodged the second. Then stepped too close.
Too close.
He caught her wrist, spun, and in one smooth movement, pressed her back against the ropes. Not tight. Not painful.
But firm.
"You're strong," he said softly.
"You're arrogant."
"You're right."
He leaned in, his voice low, steady.
"But I'm not chasing your fists."
She shoved him off. "Then back off."
But he didn't.
He didn't need to.
Later that day, she noticed something strange.
The vending machine worked.
It hadn't worked in six months. Everyone joked about it. Everyone knew it was broken.
But now?
Cold drinks. Fully stocked. New keypad.
She frowned.
Then the mirror in the women's locker room—shattered last week—was suddenly replaced the next morning. Brand new. Not cheap.
Becky wasn't dumb. She noticed patterns. She noticed timing.
And she noticed when things were fixed by invisible hands.
She cornered her manager. "Who paid for the mirror?"
He shrugged. "No idea. Landlord said someone sent the receipt directly."
"Someone?"
He shrugged again. "Anonymous."
Becky narrowed her eyes.
And that night, it happened again.
This time, in her bank account.
$3,000.
No sender ID. No note. Just there. Sitting bold and smug like it belonged.
She stared at the screen.
Jaw clenched.
Deleted the alert.
Then opened it again.
Still there.
She paced her room in circles. The rain beat against her window like drums, but she didn't hear it. She was too busy hearing his voice. His smirk in words.
"I don't chase fists."
This wasn't a gift.
It was a mark.
The next morning, she was already mad when he walked in.
"Want to explain this?" she snapped, holding up her phone.
He didn't flinch. Just tossed his bag to the side.
"Looks like you got paid."
"Don't play with me."
"I'm not."
She threw the phone onto the bench and stepped into the ring.
"You think money makes you welcome here?"
"No."
"Then what the hell are you doing?"
"Investing," he said simply.
"In what?"
He looked up—finally, fully—his eyes sharp, focused.
"In the only thing that's ever hit me hard enough to feel real."
She froze for half a second.
Then scoffed. "Cute. Creepy, but cute."
"I'm not trying to impress you."
"Good. You're failing anyway."
They trained.
Harder this time.
She wasn't holding back. She didn't care if he bruised. Didn't care if he cracked. She wanted him to feel the message in her fists.
Stay. Out. Of. My. Space.
But he didn't fold.
He absorbed it.
Dodged it.
Smiled at it.
Like her fury was a language only he understood.
"Back off," she snapped after a round. "I'm not your project."
"You're not."
"I'm not your charity case."
"You were never weak enough for that."
"Then what? What is this? Why are you—"
"Because I've watched everything break and bend," he said, voice low, breath even. "And you're the first thing that didn't."
Silence.
Becky turned away.
She wouldn't let herself react.
He didn't get that win.
That evening, walking home, she felt it.
Eyes.
Again.
Not close.
Not creepy.
Just… present.
She crossed the street. Fast. Checked her shadow. Nothing there.
But her gut didn't lie.
Someone was watching.
And it wasn't the usual city kind of watching. It wasn't a stranger's glance.
It was fixated.
The next morning, she didn't go to the gym.
She went to the alley across from it. Sat on a crate. Hoodie up. Coffee in hand. Waiting.
He didn't come at six.
He came at six-ten.
Looking.
Scanning.
And his eyes went straight to where she sat.
Their gazes locked.
She stood.
Walked across the street, slow.
"You always send shadows, or just for me?" she asked.
He said nothing.
That was answer enough.
She got in his face. "I told you. I don't need protection. I don't need gifts. And I don't need you watching me like you own my steps."
His voice was calm. "Then stop walking into danger."
"Stop following me."
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"Because I want to know if you burn brighter when no one's looking."
That made her flinch.
Just slightly.
And he saw it.
"You're not scared of me," he said. "You're scared you might start liking it."
She didn't deny it.
She didn't have to.
She turned.
And walked away.
Later That Night – Marcono Estate
"She's still pushing you away," Vincent said, sipping his wine. "Most women don't resist you this long."
"She's not most women."
"She's trouble."
Dante smiled, slow and quiet.
"No."
"She's mine."
Vincent scoffed. "She'll break your jaw one day."
"I hope so."
He looked out the window at the rising night. Rain started again—light this time.
"She doesn't want me yet," he said, almost to himself. "But that's okay."
"Fire doesn't come when you call it."
He touched the bruise on his ribs and smiled.
"But it always leaves a scar."