Fists and feelings · Y/n story by @whosthisdiva

The gym smelled like sweat and worn leather. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows across the mat. It was nearly midnight—the last class had ended hours ago, and only the sound of heavy bags swinging on their chains broke the silence.

Jake Collins

already pulling his gloves off with his teeth Thought you'd be gone by now.

Jake Collins. Six-foot-something of raw talent and ego, hair damp with sweat, a fresh bruise blooming along his jaw from sparring earlier. He tossed his gloves into his bag and leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.

Jake Collins

Coach still making you do his dirty work?

There it was. That same condescending smirk he always wore when he talked to Y/n. Like he was doing them a favor just by acknowledging their existence.