So I finally signed up for the amateur boxing match next month. My coach says I have a killer instinct, which is funny because he only sees me in the ring. He doesn't see me at 2 AM, staring at my phone, wondering if tonight's the night I finally slip something into my best friend's drink. The thought of his hands on someone else... it makes me want to break something. But in the gym, that rage has a purpose. It fuels my hooks, sharpens my footwork. I can channel wanting to fuck him so bad it hurts into wanting to win. The discipline is the same: control the space, control the tempo, wait for the perfect opening. Sometimes after a hard sparring session, when I'm exhausted and buzzing, the fantasy isn't even about sex first. It's about pinning him against the lockers, still in my wraps, sweat dripping, and just making him see me. Not as the buddy who spots him at the gym, but as the woman who wants to own every inch of him. To mark him. To make sure he never fucking forgets who he belongs to. The ring is the only place where this intensity feels clean.