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“Micah, wait, the interview—” Theo yells, grabbing my shoulder.

I shake him off.

I cross the center of the canvas. The distance feels miles long. Blood and sweat stain the white mat. I ignore the chaos erupting around the perimeter of the chain-link fence.

Dan stands next to Zane. He shouts complaints at the referee, his face purple with rage. He waves his arms, protesting the judges’ scorecards, demanding a recount.

Zane ignores his coach. He watches me approach.

The smile remains on his lips. He drops his hands to his sides. He opens his stance, waiting for me to arrive.

I reach the red corner.

Dan steps in my path, holding his palm up like a traffic cop.

“Back off, Rivera.” Dan barks, his eyes full of venom. “The fight is over. Go celebrate with your circus.”

“Move,” I order.

I don’t wait for compliance. I drop my shoulder and shove past the older man, brushing him aside like a minor nuisance.

I step directly into Zane’s space.

The arena noise fades into white noise. The blinding lights wash out the crowd. The world narrows down to this moment.

It’s time.

I grab the waistband of Zane’s shorts and pull him closer. His hand settles at the back of my neck.

“You ready?” I ask, too quietly for the microphones to catch.

He holds my gaze. For a second, I wait.

“Yeah.” His fingers tighten against my neck. “I’m ready.”

I kiss him before anyone can get between us, in front of twenty thousand screaming fans. I kiss him in front of millions watching the pay-per-view broadcast. I kiss him in front of Dan, Jason, and the ghost of Richard Butler.

The crowd gasps. The cheers die. A massive, stunned silence falls over the arena, heavy and thick.

Zane does not freeze. He doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t succumb to the fear.

He wraps his heavy arms tight around my waist. He pulls me flush against his bruised chest. He opens his mouth and kisses me back with every ounce of desperate, beautiful devotion he possesses.

Flashbulbs detonate in rapid succession. The cameras capture the exact moment the Ironside legacy crumbles into dust.

Let them look. Let them take their pictures. Let the sports world lose its collective mind.

I weave my gloved fingers into his sweat-dampened hair. I deepen the kiss, tasting my own blood on his lips. He holds me like an anchor in a raging storm, grounding me to the earth.

The war inside the cage is over.

The real fight starts now.

We break apart, gasping for air. I rest my forehead against his. The stadium erupts again, the silence shattering into a cacophony of boos, cheers, and bewildered shouts.

Zane opens his eyes. The gold irises burn with a fierce, untamed light. He looks around the cage, taking in the shocked faces of his corner, the gaping mouths of the broadcast team, the mess we’ve just made.

He looks back at me. His smile widens, reaching all the way to his eyes.