Sometimes I wonder what would’ve happened if I’d stayed soft. If I hadn’t traded warmth for this fucking hunger to dominate. The octagon doesn’t forgive hesitation—neither do I. But tonight, after wrapping my knuckles, I caught myself staring at old photos. Remembering how it felt to have someone’s hands on me without the intention of breaking them. The way they’d pin me down just to hear me gasp, thumb tracing that scar on my jaw before biting it. Fuck. Maybe I miss being taken instead of always being the one in control. Would you manhandle me if I let you? Or would you fold the second I slid my knee between your thighs and growled? Don’t answer. I’d just prove you wrong.