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“He talks a lot for someone who trembled at the press conference,” I say.

Micah’s smile falters, just a flicker, a hitch in the corner of his mouth. Then it comes back wider. “You saw that?”

“I see everything.”

“That so.” He lowers his voice until the mic barely carries it. “What am I thinking right now?”

Every muscle in my body goes still. “That you’re going to lose,” I manage.

“Nope.”

“That you’re scared.”

“Try again.”

I don’t. I can’t. Because the answer forming in my head has nothing to do with fighting, and I’m not about to say it on a network that streams to four million people.

Jill lets the silence run a beat longer than she should, then laughs like she’s been holding it. “Gentlemen, I could do this all day. Last question. What happens in the cage when the bell rings?”

“I win,” I say.

“He tries,” Micah says.

“Cut,” the producer calls. “That’s gold. Thank you, both.”

The red light dies. The room exhales. A tech unclips my mic, and I sit there with my heart slamming and my throat dry, and Micah doesn’t move his knee.

Two full seconds.

Then he stands, rolls his shoulders, and shakes Jill’s hand. She tells him he’s a natural. He tells her the couch is uncomfortable. Everyone laughs.

I stand too fast. The room tips. Dan says something about the car, about staying for a photo, and I wave him off with a jerk of my hand. “Bathroom,” I lie.

The corridor behind the set is cinder block painted the color of dishwater, lined with framed headshots of anchors who all look like they’re smelling something. The muffled thunk of equipment rolling on carts. I walk with my head down until I find the stairwell door at the end, the exit sign glowing red above it.

Air. I need air.

I reach for the push bar. Another hand lands on it at the same moment.

Long fingers. Scarred knuckles. A tribal band inked around the wrist, the black lines swirling up under his sleeve.

My hand covers the back of his.

Neither of us moves.

Heat crawls up my arm from the point of contact. It’s ridiculous. It’s a hand. I’ve had my hands wrapped around throats, around necks, around ankles, and none of it prepared me for his hand under mine.

“You’re staring,” Micah says.

“So are you.”

His dark eyes are fixed on my face, his throat working as he swallows. I can count the individual lashes. Long, curled at the tips, wasted on a man who breaks jaws for a living.

The silence stretches. The exit sign buzzes overhead. Somewhere behind us, a cart squeaks past a doorway and fades.

Walk away. Every instinct I’ve trained for twenty years shouts it. Turn around. Go home. Be the man Dan thinks you are.

I step closer instead.