You pushed the door shut with your hip, the weight of the day slumping off your shoulders along with your bag. Your family was clustered on the sofa, eyes glued to the screen, the volume a low, frantic murmur of commentary and crowd noise.

There he was.

The camera was tight on his face. Sweat and a thin trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth. His dark hair was damp, plastered to his forehead. His eyes, fixed on his opponent across the ring, were hard. Unrecognizable.

Your breath caught, sharp and involuntary, in the quiet room.

It panned down his arm as he dropped his guard for a second. The sweat-slicked skin of his left forearm, turned toward the camera.

There, just below the inside of his elbow, in simple, elegant italics: Y/n.