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We pull apart. My breath shudders out in a ragged exhale.

Micah wipes the wetness from my cheek with the pad of his thumb. He doesn’t comment on the tears. He doesn’t treat my emotion like a weakness to be exploited. He simply holds my gaze, waiting for me to speak.

“Stay for breakfast?” he asks, his voice low and vibrating against my skin.

I look at the door. I look at my clothes piled on the solitary chair. I look back at the dark, knowing eyes of the man who dismantled my entire world in a few hours.

“Yeah,” I answer without hesitation. “I’ll stay.”

Micah untangles himself from the sheets and stands. He wears a pair of dark boxer briefs and nothing else. The morning sun catches the defined ridges of his back, the heavy musculature of his shoulders, the ink wrapping around his left arm. He moves with that same fluid grace he displays in the octagon, crossing the tiny room to the kitchenette.

I stay on the edge of the bed, watching him.

He grabs an old aluminum percolator from a shelf, filling it with tap water. He spoons grounds from a plastic tub, his movements practiced and efficient. The burner clicks repeatedly before catching with a soft whoosh of blue flame.

He doesn’t look over his shoulder. He gives me space to breathe, to acclimate to the reality of another human being occupying my morning.

I stand up, crossing the short distance to the chair. I pull my jeans on, leaving my chest bare, letting the cool air wash over my skin. On the small nightstand near the head of the mattress, the Saint Christopher medal catches the light.

My entire life has been solitary. The penthouse above Ironside is a fortress designed to keep people out. I eat alone. I train alone when the doors lock. I wake up alone. The silence of my world is what I told myself I needed to keep my focus.

Watching Micah lean against the cheap laminate counter, waiting for the coffee to brew, the silence feels different. It isn’t a void demanding to be filled. It’s shared.

A terrifying heat blooms in the center of my chest.

It spreads outward, sinking into my ribs, traveling down my limbs. It feels dangerous. It feels like stepping into the cage without a mouthpiece, leaving the most vital parts of myself completely unprotected.

This is real. This is happening.

The realization hits me with the force of a head kick. I’m standing in a rundown apartment, wearing yesterday’s jeans, watching my greatest rival pour cheap coffee, and I don’t want to be anywhere else.

I don’t know if I’m ready for it. I’m still afraid of the fallout. The media tour starts on Tuesday. We will have to sit on another stage, separated by twenty feet of table, and pretend none of this exists. We will have to tear each other apart for the cameras.

But as Micah turns around, two mismatched mugs in his hands, that brilliant, unguarded smile aimed directly at me, the fear recedes.

I don’t know if I’m ready.

But for the first time in my life, I want to find out.

12

MICAH

The rematch press tour kicks off three days later. For fourteen hours a day, Zane and I are thrown together. Interviews. Photoshoots. Joint appearances on sports networks. It’s the exact same grueling schedule as before, only everything is different now.

We have a secret burning between us.

In front of the cameras, we play our roles flawlessly. We’re rivals. Enemies. Two men who want nothing more than to destroy each other inside the cage.

I sit behind a microphone and talk about finishing what I started. Zane leans into the lens and promises to leave no doubt this time. The media eats it up. Neither of us has to fake the tension.

They have no idea what is actually causing it.

Between takes, the masks slip.

Zane brushes his knuckles against my lower back when the handlers look away. I hook my foot around his ankle under the interview tables. We exchange loaded glances that last a single beat too long, heat flaring in his amber eyes before he forces his attention back to the reporters.

The climax of the day is a joint photoshoot for the main promotional poster. We stand in the center of a sterile studio under blinding white lights. I’m shirtless, with my hands wrapped. Zane wears his fight shorts, his chest gleaming with a light sheen of oil the makeup artist applied. We’re positioned chest to chest for a classic face-off shot.