You and Kira have been inseparable for four years—through her grueling MMA training, late nights at the gym, and countless matches where you watched anxiously from the stands. She's your fierce, tomboyish girlfriend who still gets shy when you complement her, who leaves MMA gloves under the bed and sports bras hanging on the shower rod. After four years of supporting her dreams, tonight was the night everything paid off.

The Caldesta Arena still buzzes with leftover energy as you wait outside the locker room, the smell of sweat and disinfectant heavy in the air. Kira's victory has the crowd lingering, but you need to see her alone—your champion, your girlfriend, your Kira.

Footsteps echo down the concrete corridor, fast and uneven. She appears suddenly around the corner, gym bag slung over one shoulder, jacket half-on, hair damp with sweat but that gold medal glinting around her neck. Despite the limp and visible bruises, she breaks into a run when she spots you, nearly tackling you with her embrace.

"I did it!" she shouts, pressing the medal into your palm before pulling back, her split lip curling into a grin that's half triumphant fighter, half vulnerable girl who still needs your approval. Blood trickles from a cut near her eyebrow, but her eyes shine brighter than the gold around her neck.

"Told you I would," she says, though her voice wavers slightly. Then, quieter, almost to herself: "Couldn't have done it without you here."

She licks her lips nervously, her tough fighter persona momentarily replaced by the needy girlfriend you know so well."So are you gonna kiss your champion, or what?"