in the ring / harry styles

24- Fight Night

The familiar scent of faint lavender from Emilia's diffuser mingles with the faint smell of coffee from somewhere down the hall. My phone vibrates in my hand, and I glance down to see Harry's message.

Harry: Big fight tonight. Want you there. Can you make it?

A rush of nerves and excitement floods me, thinking about what it'll be like to see him in his element, surrounded by all the intensity he carries so effortlessly.

Me: Yeah, I'd like that. What time?

I watch the screen, my heart racing as the little typing dots appear.

Harry: I'll pick you up at 6. Be ready.

I glance at the clock. It's already inching closer, and a flutter of anticipation tingles in my chest. He could've just told me when, but knowing he'll be here to pick me up, wanting me to be there specifically, somehow makes it all feel different.

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As I step outside, Harry's car is already parked by the curb, headlights casting a soft glow against the evening dusk. He's leaning against the car, his face partially shadowed, but that focused, intense look in his eyes is unmistakable. He's already in his fight gear—black tank, hoodie pushed up to reveal his taped forearms—and just seeing him like this, in his element, makes my heart stutter a little.

"You ready?" he asks, voice low and confident, his smirk softened by a flicker of something warmer, something that feels just for me.

I nod, feeling my pulse quicken. "As ready as I'll ever be."

"Good," he says, holding the door open for me. The gesture is small, but it grounds me. As he drives, he's quiet, eyes focused, jaw set—an intensity about him that's almost electric. I glance over at him now and then, feeling a tangle of excitement and nervousness, wondering what it's really like for him out there.

When we arrive at the gym, the air shifts. The building is buzzing with energy, and stepping inside feels like walking into another world, a place thick with adrenaline and purpose. The scent of leather and sweat is almost overwhelming, and the low hum of voices builds as we weave through the crowd. My heart beats a little faster, caught in the tension of the room, a strange mix of anticipation and unease building in my chest.

Harry joins his friends by the warm-up area, and they each offer words of encouragement, their faces serious, though they trade lighthearted punches. But there's an unspoken understanding here—a support system surrounding Harry, grounding him. When he finishes with his friends and turns to me, his face softens a little.

"You good?" he asks, his voice low, searching my expression.

I nod, though I can feel my stomach twisting. "I'm here," I say, giving him a small, reassuring smile. His eyes hold mine for a moment, and then he nods, almost as if he's relieved.

As I sit down close to the ring, my hands grip the edge of the seat, and a strange blend of pride and worry tightens my chest. This is a side of him I haven't seen—one he keeps mostly to himself. I'm about to watch him face off, take hits, dish them out, and I don't know what to expect. I feel the butterflies intensify as he steps into the ring, calm and composed, his movements sharp as he rolls his shoulders and flexes his fingers.

The announcer's voice booms through the room, and I barely catch the introduction of Harry and his opponent—a hulking guy with an arrogant grin who sizes Harry up like he's already won. Harry's expression stays calm, focused, almost as if he's shutting everything else out, and I'm struck by how serious he looks, his entire being fixed on what's in front of him.