I'm glad to see that you're back, but on a serious note, though, are you taking any requests? If so, anything with Anthony Joshua
when the gloves come off.
an anthony joshua fic
summary ~ request!
includes ~ fluff, no warnings.
word count ~ 3,050
a/n ~ this is such a cutsie one. i hope you enjoy love :3
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The first time you met Anthony, you were standing in the middle of a small bookstore café in London, holding a cup of chai that had already gone lukewarm because you were too busy arguing with the cashier about your missing loyalty points.
“I’m not saying you personally stole them,” you said, trying to keep your voice polite even though your patience was already fading. “I’m just saying they were there yesterday, and now suddenly, they’re not.”
The cashier looked like she wanted to disappear. “I can call my manager?”
Before you could answer, a deep voice behind you said, “I can cover it.”
You turned around slowly, already prepared to reject the offer, because that was not the point. You didn’t need saving. You needed justice. But the second you saw him, the words got stuck somewhere between your throat and your pride.
Anthony Joshua stood behind you in a black hoodie, matching joggers, and sneakers that looked too clean for the rainy London pavement outside. He was tall enough to make the cozy café feel smaller, broad enough that people naturally moved around him, and handsome in a way that was honestly inconvenient. His expression was calm, amused, and polite, like he hadn’t just stepped into your very serious financial dispute over café rewards.
You blinked. “That’s not the point.”
His mouth curved slightly. “I figured.”
“So why offer?”
“Because you looked like you were about to fight over a cappuccino.”
“It’s chai.”
“My mistake.”
“And I wasn’t about to fight,” you said, lifting your chin. “I was about to advocate.”
That made him laugh, low and warm, the sound rolling out of him so naturally that you almost forgot to keep your face serious. The cashier quickly fixed the issue, probably grateful that the extremely tall man had distracted you long enough for her to sort it out, and after your points were restored, you stepped aside with your drink and your book tucked under your arm.
Anthony ended up beside you at the pickup counter a moment later, still smiling to himself.
“You always that passionate?” he asked.
“Only when justice is involved.”
“Loyalty points are justice?”
“In this economy? Absolutely.”
He laughed again, and this time you smiled before you could stop yourself. That was the first thing that annoyed you about him. He was too easy to smile around. He didn’t have the loud, performative energy you expected from someone so famous. He wasn’t trying to own the room, even though he easily could have. He simply stood there, calm and grounded, like a man who knew his size but didn’t need to use it.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
You told him, and he repeated it carefully, like he wanted to make sure it sounded right.
“I’m Anthony,” he said.
You gave him a look. “I know.”
He dipped his head, smiling. “Had to check.”
Your drinks came up at the same time, and for a second, it felt like the moment was supposed to end there. You were supposed to take your chai, find a corner table, open your book, and pretend you hadn’t just been flirting with Anthony Joshua over a rewards balance. But then his eyes dropped to the novel tucked under your arm.
“What are you reading?”
You held it up. “A romance novel.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Any good?”
“So far, the male lead is emotionally unavailable, rich, stubborn, and annoying.”
He nodded like he was seriously considering it. “Sounds realistic.”
You laughed before you could catch it, and his expression softened as if the sound pleased him more than he expected. That was the moment something shifted. Not dramatically, not like fireworks or music swelling in the background, but quietly. Like a door opening just enough for light to get through.
He asked if he could sit with you. You told him he could, but only if he didn’t talk during the good parts of your book. He promised, then immediately broke the promise five minutes later by asking whether the male lead deserved forgiveness.
“He hasn’t done enough groveling yet,” you said, turning a page.
“How much groveling is enough?”
“That depends on the offense.”
“What did he do?”
“He pushed her away because he was scared of his feelings.”
Anthony leaned back, thinking. “Common mistake.”
You peered at him over the top of your book. “That sounded personal.”
He smiled into his cup. “Maybe I’ve seen things.”
“Or maybe you are things.”
“Am I on trial now?”
“You interrupted my reading. This is the consequence.”
Somehow, that was how you spent the next hour: him asking about fictional drama, you pretending to be annoyed, both of you laughing into your drinks like you had known each other for months instead of minutes. He asked you what you did for work, and you told him you worked in marketing and community outreach for an arts nonprofit, helping young Black and brown creatives get access to resources, funding, and mentorship. When you tried to brush it off as “just work,” he shook his head.
“That’s not just work,” he said. “That’s impact.”
You looked down at your cup, suddenly shy in a way you didn’t like. “It’s exhausting impact.”
“I can imagine.”
“No, you can’t. You punch people for a living.”
He smiled. “And somehow you sound scarier than half the men I’ve fought.”
You pointed at him. “Good. Respect that.”
“I do.”
The way he said it was simple, but it landed somewhere soft. He listened like he actually cared. He didn’t check his phone every thirty seconds or turn every answer into a story about himself. He was thoughtful, funny in a dry way, and strangely gentle for someone whose profession revolved around controlled violence.
By the time you finally left, the sky had turned dark gray, and rain was sliding down the windows in silver streaks. Anthony walked you to your car with his umbrella held mostly over you, even though the rain was soaking one side of his hoodie.
“You know you’re getting rained on, right?” you said.
“I’ll survive.”
“You box professionally, but rain is where you draw the line?”
“No,” he said, glancing down at you. “But you looked like you cared.”
That quieted you. He noticed, but he didn’t tease. He just opened your car door and waited while you got in.
Before you could close it, he said, “Would it be too forward if I asked to see you again?”
You looked up at him through the rain-softened light. “Depends. Are you going to interrupt my reading again?”
“Probably.”
“Then I should say no.”
“But?”
You tried not to smile. “But I might not.”
His grin came slow, pleased and warm, and you exchanged numbers right there in the rain. When you got home that night, his name popped up on your phone before you even took off your coat.
Anthony:
Did you make it home safe?
You stared at the message longer than necessary, smiling like somebody’s fool.
You:
Yes. Did you survive the rain?
Anthony:
Barely. Very traumatic.
You:
Thoughts and prayers.
Anthony:
Appreciated. So when can I interrupt your reading again?
You should have waited to respond. You should have let the message breathe. Instead, you sat on the edge of your bed in your coat, grinning down at your phone.
You:
You’re persistent.
Anthony:
Disciplined.
You:
That’s one way to put it.
Anthony:
Saturday?
You stared at the word and felt that nervous, fluttery feeling return. Saturday felt intentional. Saturday felt like a date. Saturday felt like the beginning of something you had no business entertaining, because men like Anthony Joshua did not casually enter your life without disrupting everything.
But then again, maybe a little disruption wouldn’t hurt.
You:
Saturday works.
From there, it became dangerously easy. Your second date was dinner at a quiet restaurant with warm lighting, low music, and a corner table that made the world feel far away. Anthony arrived before you did, stood when you reached the table, and pulled your chair out like it was the most natural thing in the world. He complimented your dress with such quiet sincerity that you almost forgot how to speak.
“You look beautiful,” he said.
You glanced down, smoothing your hands over the fabric. “You say that to all the women you interrupt in cafés?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No,” he repeated, eyes steady on yours. “Just you.”
You had to take a sip of water immediately.
Dinner stretched for hours. You talked about childhood, family, ambition, fear, and the strange pressure of being the person other people expected to have everything handled. He told you about boxing, not the glamorous part, but the lonely part. The early mornings, the discipline, the pressure, the way people expected him to be strong even when he was tired.
“You ever get scared?” you asked him.
He didn’t answer quickly. You liked that. He didn’t perform bravery for you.
“Yeah,” he said eventually. “But fear doesn’t mean stop. Sometimes it just means pay attention.”
You nodded slowly. “That’s actually beautiful.”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I’m adjusting.”
“To what?”
“You being more than big arms and a nice smile.”
He laughed, but there was a softness in his eyes. “Nice smile, yeah?”
“Don’t get distracted.”
“Too late.”
After dinner, he walked you to your car again, and this time, he didn’t ask to kiss you. You could tell he wanted to. You could feel it in the pause, in the way his eyes dropped to your mouth for half a second before returning to yours. But he only hugged you goodnight, warm and careful, his hand resting respectfully at your back.
It made you like him more.
The third date was the one that ruined you.
He invited you to a community boxing event at his gym, warning you that it wasn’t fancy. You told him you didn’t need fancy. When you arrived, the gym was buzzing with life. Kids ran around in sneakers, parents chatted near folding tables stacked with food, teenagers shadowboxed in corners, and music played low through the speakers. The air smelled like sweat, fried plantain, and something sweet from the dessert table.
You found Anthony near the ring, crouched in front of a little boy whose gloves were almost too big for his hands. The boy was throwing tiny punches with all the seriousness in the world, and Anthony watched him like he was studying a future champion.
“Balance first,” he said gently. “Power means nothing if you don’t have control.”
The boy nodded hard, like he had just received wisdom from a superhero.
A little girl tugged on Anthony’s sleeve a minute later and demanded he watch her jump rope. Without hesitation, he turned, gave her his full attention, and clapped every time she made it past ten. When she got to twenty-three, he looked more excited than she did.
You stood near the doorway, holding the tray of patties you had brought from your favorite Caribbean bakery, and felt something inside you get dangerously soft.
He saw you then.
His whole face changed.
Not dramatically, but enough. Enough for you to notice that his smile was different when it was for you. He said something to one of the coaches, then came toward you with that smooth, unhurried walk that made your stomach act up.
“You came,” he said.
“I said I would.”
“I know.” His eyes moved over your face gently. “Still happy you did.”
You looked away before your expression embarrassed you. “I brought food.”
“For me?”
“For the event.”
“So partly for me.”
“Barely.”
He reached for the tray, and his fingers brushed yours. It was quick, accidental maybe, but heat still rushed through your hand.
“Thank you,” he said.
“You’re welcome.”
For the next couple of hours, you watched him move through the room. Everyone knew him, but he didn’t act above anyone. He shook hands with fathers, hugged aunties, listened to teenagers, carried chairs, wiped tables, posed for pictures, and still somehow kept checking on you from across the room. Every time your eyes met, he smiled a little, like he was making sure you were okay.
An older woman beside you leaned in and said, “He likes you.”
You almost choked on your ginger beer. “Oh, we’re just—”
“Mm-hmm.”
You laughed nervously. “No, really, we’re just getting to know each other.”
“That man has been looking for you every three minutes.”
You glanced across the gym just as Anthony looked up from a conversation and found you again. His face softened immediately.
The woman patted your arm. “See?”
You had no defense.
Later, after the event ended and the gym quieted down, you found him stacking chairs. You tried to help, but he looked offended.
“You’re a guest.”
“I have hands.”
“And I have longer arms. Sit down.”
“Bossy.”
“Efficient.”
You sat near the ring with a paper plate balanced on your lap while he finished cleaning up. When he finally joined you, he lowered himself beside you with a tired sigh.
“You’ve been quiet,” he said.
“I’ve been observing.”
“Should I be worried?”
“Maybe.”
He leaned back, amused. “What did you observe?”
You looked at him for a moment, deciding whether to be honest. Then you said, “You’re softer than people probably think.”
His expression shifted. Not offended. Not embarrassed. Just touched in a way he didn’t seem prepared for.
“You think so?”
“I know so.”
The gym lights hummed above you. Rain tapped against the windows. Somewhere in the back, someone laughed while carrying out trash bags. But the space between you felt still.
“I don’t get to be that with everybody,” he said quietly.
Your chest tightened. “You can be that with me.”
He looked at you then, really looked at you, and something unspoken passed between you. He had been patient from the beginning. Respectful. Careful. He never rushed you, never pushed, never acted like access to you was guaranteed. But right then, in that dim gym, both of you seemed to understand that this had become more than flirting.
“Can I kiss you?” he asked.
Your heart tripped over itself.
“Yes.”
He leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away, but you didn’t. His hand came to your cheek, warm and gentle, and then his mouth was on yours.
The kiss was soft at first. Careful. Almost questioning. Then you sighed against him, and his hand at your cheek slid slightly closer to your jaw. The kiss deepened, still tender but fuller now, carrying every text message, every laugh, every almost-moment since the café. You forgot the paper plate in your lap. You forgot the rain. You forgot that he was Anthony Joshua and remembered only that he was Anthony, the man who held umbrellas over you and listened when you spoke and made you feel seen in ways you hadn’t expected.
When you pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
“I’ve wanted to do that since the café,” he admitted.
You smiled. “Since I was arguing over loyalty points?”
“Especially then.”
“You’re strange.”
“Maybe.”
“But sweet.”
His thumb brushed your cheek. “Only for you.”
That was the beginning for real.
Dating Anthony felt like being loved in details. He learned how you liked your tea, how you liked your eggs, how you got quiet when you were overwhelmed, and how your “I’m fine” usually meant you were two inconveniences away from crying in the shower. He remembered that you hated answering the phone while eating, that you needed at least twenty minutes of silence after work sometimes, and that flowers made you happy even though you always said they were “unnecessary.”
He sent them anyway.
Sometimes to your office, where your coworkers crowded around your desk and screamed over the card.
Proud of you. Always. — A
Sometimes to your flat, when you had a hard week.
Sometimes just because.
You tried not to let it go to your head. You failed.
He wasn’t perfect. Neither were you. Sometimes his schedule frustrated you. Training camp could swallow him whole, and there were days when his exhaustion made him quiet in a way that scared you. Not because he was cruel, but because silence had always made you nervous. You were used to people pulling away before they left.
One night, after he canceled dinner for the second time that week because camp had run late, you told him you understood, but your voice came out too flat.
He noticed immediately.
“Talk to me,” he said over the phone.
“I said it’s fine.”
“Yeah, but you said it like you were putting a period at the end of a sentence you don’t want to finish.”
You hated how well he read you.
“I just…” You sighed, sitting on your bed with your knees pulled to your chest. “I know your life is busy. I knew that before this started. I’m not trying to be unfair.”
“But?”
“But sometimes I feel like I’m waiting around for space in it.”
He was quiet for a second. Not defensive. Listening.
“That’s fair,” he said.
You blinked. “That’s it?”
“What, you wanted me to argue?”
“No. I just expected…”
“For me to explain why you shouldn’t feel that way?”
You didn’t answer.
His voice softened. “I don’t want you feeling like you’re begging for my time. You’re not. And I’m sorry I made you feel like that.”
Your throat tightened.
“I know I can’t always control camp,” he continued, “but I can communicate better. I can plan better. You deserve that.”
It was such a simple response, but it nearly undid you. No ego. No guilt-tripping. No making you feel needy for wanting consistency.
The next morning, breakfast arrived at your door with a note.
Not a replacement for my time. Just a reminder I’m thinking of you. Dinner Friday, no canceling. — A
And he didn’t cancel.
That Friday, he showed up at your door in a dark sweater, holding your favorite flowers and wearing the most apologetic expression you had ever seen on a man that large.
“You look like you’re about to ask my father for my hand,” you said.
“Would he say yes?”
You froze.
Anthony’s eyes widened slightly, like he realized how serious that sounded.
“I mean—eventually. Not now. Unless—no, not unless. I’m just saying—”
You burst out laughing.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “That came out wrong.”
“You got nervous?”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
He tried to look stern. It did not work.
You stepped closer and took the flowers from him. “For the record, he would probably say yes. My mother would interrogate you first.”
“I’d expect nothing less.”
You smiled. “Come in, Joshua.”
He kissed your forehead as he passed you. “Yes, ma’am.”
The first time he met your family properly, he was more nervous than he had been before major fights. He changed shirts three times, asked if he should bring anything besides flowers, and kept checking whether your mother preferred “ma’am” or “Miss.”
“You’re being dramatic,” you told him in the car.
“I’m being respectful.”
“My aunties are going to flirt with you either way.”
He looked mildly alarmed. “Should I prepare?”
“No. That makes it worse.”
Your family loved him, of course. Your mother tried to act unimpressed for the first twenty minutes, but Anthony ruined her plan by greeting her so politely and complimenting her cooking with such sincerity that she visibly softened. Your aunties asked him questions they had no business asking. Your cousins begged for pictures. Your uncle challenged him to dominoes and talked trash the entire time.
Anthony lost on purpose once.
Your uncle noticed.
“Don’t insult me, young man,” he said.
Anthony laughed, held up his hands, and then proceeded to win the next round so cleanly that your uncle accused him of being too competitive.
You watched from the kitchen doorway, heart full.
Later that night, while everyone was still talking and laughing in the living room, you found Anthony outside on the porch, leaning against the railing. The night air was cool, and the warm light from inside spilled across his face.
“You okay?” you asked.
He looked over and smiled. “Yeah. Just taking it in.”
“My family?”
“Your world.”
You stepped beside him. “Scared yet?”
“No.” He reached for your hand. “I like seeing where your love comes from.”
That sentence went straight through you.
You looked down at your joined hands. “You always know what to say.”
“Nah. Sometimes I get lucky.”
“No, you mean things. That’s different.”
He brought your hand to his mouth and kissed your knuckles. “I mean you.”
There were moments like that constantly, moments that made you want to scream into a pillow because how were you supposed to stay normal around a man who said things like that and looked at you like you hung the moon?
The first time he told you he loved you, it wasn’t during a grand dinner or under some dramatic skyline. It happened in his kitchen while you were wearing one of his hoodies and dancing barefoot to a song playing from your phone. You were supposed to be helping him cook dinner, but you had turned a wooden spoon into a microphone and were performing like your life depended on it.
Anthony was supposed to be chopping vegetables. Instead, he just watched you.
You caught him staring. “What?”
He shook his head, smiling softly. “Nothing.”
“No, tell me.”
He put the knife down carefully, walked over, and rested his hands at your waist. His eyes were warm, almost disbelieving, like he was looking at something precious he still couldn’t believe he got to hold.
“I love you,” he said.
The room went quiet.
Your smile faded, not because you didn’t feel the same, but because the words hit you so deeply that you needed a second to breathe. Anthony looked calm, but you felt the tension in his hands, the quiet vulnerability of a man who had faced punches for a living but was terrified of your silence.
You reached up and touched his face.
“I love you too.”
His whole expression changed. The relief, the joy, the tenderness of it almost made you cry. He pulled you into him, lifting you slightly off the floor as you laughed into his neck.
“Say it again,” he murmured.
“I love you.”
He closed his eyes. “Again.”
You laughed softly. “Anthony.”
“Please.”
So you said it again, quieter this time, right against his mouth. “I love you.”
He kissed you after that, sweet and passionate, smiling between kisses like he couldn’t help it. Dinner nearly burned, but neither of you cared. You ate late, standing barefoot in the kitchen, feeding each other bites from the pan and laughing like two people who had found something rare.
Months passed, and the love deepened. It wasn’t always perfect. Love never is. There were misunderstandings, tired conversations, moments when outside pressure crept into your private world. Sometimes people online were cruel. Sometimes they made comments about you that Anthony wanted to respond to immediately, but you would take his phone and shake your head.
“Don’t feed it.”
“They don’t get to speak about you like that.”
“They don’t know me.”
“I do.”
You’d look at him then, and all his anger would soften into concern.
“I know,” you’d say. “That’s what matters.”
But later, when the comments hurt more than you wanted to admit, he would know. He would find you sitting quietly on the edge of the bed, pretending to scroll, and he would kneel in front of you.
“Talk to me.”
“I’m fine.”
His face would say he didn’t believe you, but his voice stayed gentle. “I know you’re strong. I’m not asking because I think you’re weak. I’m asking because you shouldn’t have to hold it by yourself.”
That always got you.
One night, after a particularly harsh wave of attention, you finally broke down. You hated crying in front of people. Hated feeling exposed. But Anthony didn’t make it awkward. He sat beside you, pulled you into his lap, and held you while you cried against his chest.
“I don’t want to make your life harder,” you whispered.
He pulled back just enough to look at you. “You don’t.”
“But all of this—”
“All of this is noise.” His thumb brushed under your eye. “You are not noise. You’re the clearest thing in my life.”
Your tears started again immediately.
He gave a soft, almost helpless laugh. “I was trying to help.”
“You did,” you said, wiping your face. “You’re just too sweet and it’s annoying.”
He smiled. “I’ll work on being less sweet.”
“Don’t you dare.”
He kissed your forehead. “Wasn’t planning to.”
By the time your anniversary came around, you thought you understood how loved you were. Then Anthony proved you wrong.
He told you to dress comfortably, which immediately made you suspicious.
“Comfortably as in cute comfortable or actually comfortable?” you asked over the phone.
“Both.”
“That is not helpful.”
“Trust me.”
“I do. That’s the problem.”
He picked you up that afternoon with a smile he kept trying to hide. When you asked where you were going, he only said, “Somewhere familiar.”
You realized where he was taking you when the car pulled onto the street of the bookstore café.
Your mouth fell open.
“Anthony.”
He looked over, suddenly shy. “Too much?”
You shook your head, already emotional. “No.”
He had reserved the back corner of the café. The same corner where you had first sat together. The table was decorated with small flowers, two cups of chai, and a copy of the romance novel you had been reading the day you met. Inside the book was a card.
You picked it up with shaking hands.
One year since you advocated for justice and ruined my peace in the best way. I’d choose that café, that rain, and that moment again every time. — A
You covered your mouth.
Anthony stood beside you quietly, giving you space to take it in.
“You did all this?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
His brows pulled together slightly, like the answer was obvious. “Because you deserve to be loved out loud sometimes.”
You turned to him, tears already slipping down your cheeks. “You can’t just say things like that.”
“I mean it.”
“I know. That’s the problem.”
He smiled softly and reached for your hands. “This year with you has been the calmest and most terrifying year of my life.”
You laughed through your tears. “That sounds awful.”
“It’s not. It’s just…” He rubbed his thumb across your knuckles. “I’m used to pressure. I’m used to risk. But loving you made me want to be better in ways I couldn’t hide from. It made me want to come home softer. Listen better. Show up fully. Not as the boxer. Not as the name. Just me.”
“You do,” you whispered.
“I’m trying.”
“You do,” you said again, firmer this time.
He lifted your hands and kissed them. “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
He pulled you into his arms, and you stood there in the little café where it all began, surrounded by the quiet proof of a love that had grown from one ridiculous argument into something steady and beautiful.
Later, you sat together at the same corner table from your first meeting. Anthony flipped through the romance novel and shook his head.
“You know,” he said, “the male lead did not grovel enough.”
You nearly dropped your chai.
“Excuse me?”
“He didn’t. You were right.”
You stared at him. “Anthony Joshua, romance critic.”
“I’ve learned from the best.”
“And who is that?”
“You.”
You rolled your eyes, but your smile betrayed you.
He reached across the table and took your hand. His thumb moved slowly over your skin, steady and familiar.
“When I saw you that first day,” he said, “I thought you were beautiful.”
“You thought I was about to fight a cashier.”
“Both can be true.”
You laughed.
“But then you sat with me,” he continued, “and you talked to me like I was just a man in a café. Not a headline. Not a fighter. Just me. I don’t think you know how much that meant.”
Your teasing faded.
“I liked just you,” you said softly.
His eyes warmed. “Still do?”
You squeezed his hand. “Very much.”
He smiled, and there it was again. That private smile. The one that had become yours.
A year ago, he had interrupted your afternoon. He had walked into your life with an umbrella, a calm voice, and the kind of patience that made softness feel safe. You hadn’t known then that love could feel like this. Not perfect. Not effortless. But intentional. Gentle. Passionate in quiet ways and loud ways. Sweet enough to make your chest ache.
You hadn’t known a man could make you feel protected without making you feel small. Desired without making you feel consumed. Loved without making you feel like you had to earn it every day.
But Anthony did.
He held your hand across the table like he knew exactly what he had found.
And you held his right back.
Because when the gloves came off, when the lights dimmed, when the cameras stopped flashing and the world stopped watching, he was not the champion, not the headlines, not the man everyone thought they knew.
He was Anthony.
Your Anthony.
The man who interrupted your reading, ruined your peace, learned your tea order, held you through your worst days, kissed you like he meant every promise, and loved you with the kind of sweetness that made people believe in romance again.
And somehow, beautifully, softly, completely, he had become home.
Loved that Anthony Joshua fic, so I was requesting where AJ and a reader are dating and their relationship is private. They reveal their relationship after one of his fights( the fight between Jake Paul and him).
ding ding ding!
an anthony joshua fic
summary ~ requested!
includes ~ fluff // mentions of violence (boxing) // supportive gf reader
word count ~ 2,641
a/n ~ he’s so cutesie.
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For almost a year, loving Anthony had been your favorite secret.
Not because he was hiding you. Never that. Anthony had made that clear from the beginning. He was private, yes, but not secretive. There was a difference, and he made sure you felt it.
“You’re not something I’m ashamed of,” he told you one night, months into the relationship, his hand warm on your thigh as you sat beside him on the couch. “You’re something I’m protecting.”
And you believed him, because Anthony protected everything that mattered to him.
The world knew Anthony Joshua the fighter. The champion. The disciplined man with the calm voice and dangerous hands. They knew the version of him that stood under bright lights, answered questions with practiced patience, and walked into arenas with the weight of expectation on his shoulders.
But you knew Anthony when the lights went down.
You knew him barefoot in the kitchen, making tea at midnight. You knew him half-asleep, face tucked against your neck, mumbling that he missed you even though you were right there. You knew him on the hard days, when training took too much out of him and he got quiet in that way that told you he needed peace, not questions. You knew the tenderness he carried beneath all that strength.
So when the fight was announced — Anthony Joshua versus Jake Paul — the world lost its mind.
Everyone had an opinion.
Some people called it entertainment. Some called it embarrassing. Some said Jake was brave. Others said he was delusional. Sports shows argued about it for weeks. Social media turned it into a circus before either man had even stepped in the ring.
Anthony didn’t say much.
That was his way.
He trained.
He focused.
He let people talk.
But you saw the pressure in him anyway. Not fear. Anthony wasn’t scared of Jake. But there was something heavy about the spectacle of it all. A fight like that came with noise. Cameras. Memes. People hoping for chaos. People wanting him to win, but also wanting a show.
One night, three weeks before the fight, you found him sitting at the edge of the bed in silence, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. He was still in his training clothes, hoodie stretched across his shoulders, head lowered.
You leaned against the doorway. “You okay?”
He looked up, and his expression softened the second he saw you.
“Yeah.”
You gave him a look.
He huffed a small laugh. “You don’t believe me?”
“I believe you’re capable of lying politely.”
That got a smile out of him.
You walked over and stood between his knees. He immediately rested his hands at your waist, thumbs moving slowly against the fabric of your shirt.
“It’s just a lot of noise,” he admitted.
“I know.”
“Everybody wants it to be something. A joke. A statement. A circus.” His jaw tightened. “But when I step in there, it’s still fighting. I still have to be sharp.”
You slid your hands over his shoulders. “Then be sharp.”
His eyes lifted to yours.
“Don’t fight the noise,” you said softly. “Fight the man in front of you.”
Anthony stared at you for a second, then pulled you closer, resting his forehead against your stomach.
“You always make it simple.”
“No,” you whispered, running your fingers over the back of his neck. “I just know you.”
His arms tightened around you.
That was how most of camp went. Quiet support. Long nights. Early mornings. You didn’t attend public training. You didn’t post cryptic hints online. You didn’t sit ringside during media workouts. Nobody knew you were there when he came home exhausted. Nobody knew you were the one making sure he ate when his appetite dipped, the one rubbing his shoulders after long sessions, the one whispering prayers over him before he left for sparring.
And you liked it that way.
Until fight night.
The arena felt like it was breathing.
You sat in a private section near Anthony’s family and team, wearing all black, hair perfect, makeup soft but clean, gold jewelry catching every flash of light. You looked calm from the outside. Inside, your nerves were doing gymnastics.
The crowd was loud before the main event even started. Celebrities everywhere. Cameras everywhere. People yelling, filming, narrating their own reactions. Jake’s fans were screaming. Anthony’s fans were louder. The entire place felt like a storm waiting to break.
You kept your hands folded in your lap.
Earlier that evening, Anthony had asked if you were sure you wanted to come.
“I’m always going to show up for you,” you told him.
He held your face in both hands and kissed your forehead.
“Win or lose?”
You pulled back, offended. “Don’t ask me that again.”
His smile was soft. “Noted.”
Now, sitting in the arena, you watched Jake Paul walk out first. The lights, the music, the theatrics — all of it was loud and dramatic, exactly what everyone expected. The crowd reacted wildly.
Then Anthony’s music hit.
Your whole body went still.
He walked out like calm itself.
No unnecessary drama. No forced performance. Just Anthony, focused and composed, robe over his shoulders, eyes locked ahead. He looked powerful. Not loud. Not reckless. Just certain.
The camera caught him on the big screen, and the arena erupted.
Your chest tightened with pride.
That’s mine, you thought.
Not in a possessive way. In a sacred way. In a way only you understood because you had seen the cost. You had seen the discipline. You had seen the tired man behind the fighter and loved both equally.
The first round was tense.
Jake moved more than people expected. He was awkward, confident, trying to make Anthony chase him. The crowd reacted to every feint like something huge had happened. Anthony stayed patient, studying, touching the body, cutting off the ring with that quiet intelligence that made your heart race.
By the second round, the difference became clear.
Anthony was not rushing.
He was dismantling.
A jab that snapped Jake’s head back.
A body shot that made the arena gasp.
A right hand that had everyone on their feet.
You stood without realizing it, one hand pressed to your mouth.
“Come on,” you whispered. “Come on, Ant.”
Sixth round.
Jake tried to swing big.
Anthony saw it.
Slipped.
Countered.
Everything happened so fast and so clean that for one second, the arena seemed to freeze.
Then Jake hit the canvas, jaw snapped.
The building exploded.
You were on your feet, screaming before you could stop yourself. Anthony moved to the neutral corner, breathing controlled, face unreadable. The referee counted. Jake tried to rise, stumbled, and the fight was waved off.
It was over.
Anthony had won.
The sound that left you was half laugh, half sob. His team rushed into the ring. The crowd was chaos. Cameras flashed. Commentators shouted. People screamed his name.
And Anthony?
Anthony looked for you.
Before the interview.
Before the celebration.
Before anything else.
His eyes swept the ringside area until they found yours.
The second he saw you, his whole face changed.
The fighter softened into the man.
Your man.
Your breath caught.
He pointed at you.
Not dramatically. Not for the cameras. Just one gloved hand lifting in your direction like he needed you to know he saw you.
But the cameras caught it anyway.
The big screen showed your face for half a second. You froze, eyes wide, and then the crowd reacted because people knew immediately. Maybe not the details, but they felt something. The way he looked at you. The way you looked back. The way his smile showed up only after seeing you.
Your phone, tucked into your small purse, probably started exploding right then.
You didn’t check it.
Anthony climbed out of the ring after the post-fight interview, still surrounded by cameras and security. You expected him to go backstage first. To keep the line between public and private intact a little longer.
Instead, he came straight toward you.
Your heart started pounding for a completely different reason.
His team moved with him, clearing space. People shouted his name. Cameras followed. He was still sweaty, still wrapped, still breathing from the fight, but his eyes stayed on you.
You stood there, suddenly shy.
When he reached you, the noise around you blurred.
“Hi,” he said, voice rough and soft at the same time.
You laughed, emotional. “Hi?”
His smile broke through. “You okay?”
“Me?” You blinked at him. “Anthony, you just fought.”
“I asked if you’re okay.”
That was so painfully him that your eyes filled.
“I’m okay,” you whispered. “I’m so proud of you.”
His face softened completely.
For a second, he just looked at you.
Then he reached for you.
You knew what it meant.
You could have stepped back. Could have kept it private. Could have preserved the secret for one more night.
But you didn’t.
You stepped into him.
Anthony wrapped one arm around your waist, pulling you close, and kissed you in front of everyone.
The arena screamed.
You heard gasps, shouting, cameras clicking, people yelling, but all of it faded beneath the warmth of his mouth on yours. The kiss wasn’t messy or performative. It wasn’t for headlines. It was full of relief. Full of pride. Full of almost a year of hiding in plain sight, of quiet dinners and private flights and soft mornings nobody knew about.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours for a second.
“You sure?” he murmured, quiet enough that only you could hear.
You smiled against him. “Too late now.”
He laughed, low and bright, and kissed your cheek.
The crowd got even louder.
One of the reporters near the barricade shouted, “Anthony! Is this your girlfriend?”
Anthony turned slightly, keeping you tucked into his side.
His hand rested firmly at your waist.
He looked at the reporter, then at you, his eyes asking permission.
You gave the smallest nod.
His smile widened.
“This is my woman,” he said.
The way he said it made your knees nearly give out.
Not girlfriend.
Not friend.
Not “someone special.”
My woman.
Backstage was absolute madness.
His team cheered the second you walked in together. Someone yelled, “Finally!” so loudly you buried your face in Anthony’s chest. His mother hugged you tight and whispered, “I’m glad people can know now.” One of his trainers slapped Anthony on the back and said, “Man won the fight and hard-launched his relationship in the same night.”
Anthony only smiled.
He was still holding your hand.
Like now that he had done it, he had no intention of letting go.
In the dressing room, away from the cameras for the first time, you finally exhaled.
Anthony sat on the bench while someone carefully cut off the tape around his hands. You stood between his knees, gently wiping a bit of sweat from his temple with a towel.
“You really just kissed me in front of the entire arena,” you said.
He looked up at you, eyes warm. “You kissed me back.”
“I was in shock.”
“Didn’t feel like shock.”
You rolled your eyes, but your smile ruined it.
He reached up with his free hand, brushing his thumb along your cheek. “You mad?”
“No.”
“Scared?”
You hesitated.
A little.
Not of him. Never of him.
But of what came next. The headlines. The posts. The opinions. People picking apart your face, your hair, your outfit, your past, your worth. The sudden invasion into something that had been yours and his alone.
Anthony saw the answer before you said it.
“I’ll protect you,” he said quietly.
You leaned into his touch. “I know.”
“No, listen to me.” His voice lowered. “I know people talk. I know they’ll have opinions. But this doesn’t change what we are. It just means they know now. They don’t get access to us.”
Your throat tightened.
“They don’t get to define you,” he continued. “Or us. I won’t let this make you feel small.”
You touched his face, careful near the faint swelling along his cheekbone.
“I love you,” you whispered.
His whole expression softened.
“I love you too.”
Someone in the room dramatically cleared their throat.
You pulled back quickly, remembering there were other people around.
Anthony laughed.
His cutman shook his head. “I’m trying to work here, champ.”
“Sorry,” Anthony said, not sounding sorry at all.
By the time you finally checked your phone, it was completely unusable.
Hundreds of texts.
Thousands of notifications.
Group chats in flames.
Your best friend had sent fifteen messages in all caps.
GIRL.
GIRL?????
YOU KISSED HIM ON CAMERA????
HARD LAUNCH AFTER A KNOCKOUT IS CRAZYYYYY.
ANSWER YOUR PHONE BEFORE I CALL THE POLICE.
You laughed so hard Anthony looked over.
“What?”
You showed him the messages.
He grinned. “She mad?”
“She is unwell.”
“Tell her I apologize.”
“You are not sorry.”
“No,” he admitted. “I’m not.”
Later that night, after the press, after the noise, after the celebration dinner where everyone kept cheering every time someone mentioned the knockout or the kiss, you finally got back to the hotel.
The second the door closed, the silence felt almost unreal.
You kicked off your heels near the entrance and let out a long breath.
Anthony walked up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist. He rested his chin lightly on your shoulder.
“You alright?” he asked.
You placed your hands over his. “Yeah.”
“You sure?”
You nodded, leaning back into him. “It feels strange.”
“What does?”
“People knowing.”
He was quiet for a moment.
Then he turned you gently in his arms so you were facing him.
“They know I love you,” he said. “That’s all.”
Your chest warmed.
“You love me?”
His brows lifted. “You fishing?”
“Maybe.”
He smiled, tired and beautiful, the adrenaline finally leaving him. “I love you.”
You wrapped your arms around his neck. “Say it again.”
His eyes softened.
“I love you.”
You kissed him then, slower this time. No cameras. No crowd. No one shouting his name. Just the two of you in a hotel room, his hands at your waist, your heart still racing from everything the night had become.
When you pulled away, you touched the side of his face gently.
“You scared me tonight,” you admitted.
His hands tightened slightly. “I know.”
“You looked calm, but I was nervous.”
“I know.”
“I hated it.”
He smiled faintly. “You’ll get used to it.”
“No, I won’t.”
“No?”
“No.” You shook your head. “I’ll support you. I’ll show up. I’ll clap and scream and act strong. But I’ll never get used to watching someone try to hurt you.”
His expression changed.
Softened.
Deepened.
He looked at you like that one sentence had reached the part of him people rarely saw.
Then he pulled you into his chest and held you there.
For a long time, neither of you said anything.
Finally, he whispered, “That’s why I looked for you.”
You lifted your head. “What?”
“After the fight.” His thumb moved slowly against your back. “Everyone was shouting. Team was coming in. Cameras everywhere. But I needed to see your face. Needed to know you were okay.”
Your eyes stung.
“Anthony…”
“You’re my life,” he said simply.
That did it.
You pressed your face into his chest, overwhelmed by him, by the night, by the love that had somehow gone from quiet and hidden to public and undeniable in one knockout and one kiss.
He chuckled softly when he felt your tears.
“Don’t cry.”
“I’m emotional.”
“I see that.”
“Don’t be annoying.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
You laughed into his shirt.
The next morning, the world was still talking.
The knockout was everywhere, of course. Analysts debated what it meant. Fans made jokes. Jake’s supporters argued online. Boxing pages posted slow-motion clips from the fight. But the reveal had its own life too. People were surprised. Some were sweet. Some were messy. Some wanted every detail they were never going to get.
But in bed beside Anthony, wrapped in hotel sheets with his arm heavy around your waist, none of it felt as scary as you thought it would.
Your phone buzzed nonstop on the nightstand.
Anthony groaned into the pillow. “Is that yours or mine?”
“Probably both.”
“You checking it?”
“No.”
“Good.”
You smiled, turning slightly to face him.
His eyes were still tired, his face marked by the fight, but he looked peaceful. Soft. Yours.
“You know,” you said, brushing your fingers along his jaw, “you really could’ve warned me you were about to do that.”
“Kiss you?”
“Yes.”
“I did warn you.”
“When?”
He smiled. “I walked toward you.”
You stared at him. “That is not a warning.”
“It was clear to me.”
“You are unbelievable.”
He pulled you closer, kissing your forehead. “You love me.”
“I do.”
His smile softened. “Say it again.”
You looked at him, your heart squeezing.
“I love you.”
He closed his eyes for a second, like the words still mattered every time.
For the first time, you posted him.
Not much.
Just one photo: his wrapped hand holding yours in the quiet of the dressing room, your fingers laced together, his thumb resting over your knuckles.
No long caption.
No explanation.
Just two words.
Always you.
Anthony reposted it five minutes later.
His caption was even simpler.
My heart.
And just like that, it was official.
Not because of the internet.
Not because of the cameras.
Not because the world had finally been allowed to see.
It had been official long before that.
In the quiet.
In the waiting.
In the way he came home to you after hard days.
In the way you held him when the world got loud.
In the way he looked for you after victory, not because he needed applause, but because he needed peace.
The fight had revealed your relationship.
But it had not created it.
It had only shown the world what you already knew.
Anthony was strong enough to stand under bright lights, face danger, and carry the weight of expectation.
But when the bell rang, when the gloves came off, when the noise faded, he was still just Anthony.
Your Anthony.
And now everyone knew where he was going after the fight.
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