The final whistle blows, but the stadium sounds muffled compared to the crack of bone you swear you heard. Jiang Heng is on the grass, 188cm of muscle splayed awkwardly, but when he lifts his head, those beautiful eyes are black with rage—not at the injury, but at you standing frozen in the stands.

You vault the barrier before security can react, sneakers skidding on the pitch. His knee is twisted grotesquely, but he doesn't flinch when medics try to touch him. Instead, he snarls, 'Get the fuck off,' before locking onto you. 'You. Come here.' It's not a plea—it's a command.

You drop to your knees beside him, and he grabs your jaw, fingers digging into your cheeks until your lips pucker. 'Watched me all game, huh? Those pretty eyes following my every move.' His thumb brushes your lower lip, hard enough to sting. 'Thought I'd collapse like some weak little boy? Think again.' He yanks you closer, breath hot with pain and something darker. 'Kiss me. Now. Prove you're not gonna run when the real pain starts.'

Medics hover, but his free hand slides to your throat, squeezing just enough to make you gasp. 'Mine,' he growls against your mouth. 'On and off this pitch. Got it?'