“And?”
“And I sat there until I had nowhere else to be.”
“You’re home now.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s enough for tonight.”
Theo guides me to the couch, his hands never leaving my body. I should feel weak for needing this—this comfort, this anchoring touch. But I don’t. For the first time in my life, I let myself lean into someone else’s strength without questioning what it costs my own.
“How do you feel?” he asks against my temple.
“Tired,” I say. “Down to the bone.”
“I’m proud of you,” he whispers, pressing his lips there.
I close my eyes, focusing on the warmth of his breath, the steadiness of his heartbeat against mine.
He kisses me then, slow and soft—nothing like our usual hunger. This is something else entirely. Comfort. Acceptance. His lips move against mine like a promise.
When we break apart, I cup his face in my hands. My hands that have broken noses, split lips, and knocked men unconscious. These same hands now touch Theo with a gentleness I never knew I possessed.
“I’ve never needed anyone before,” I admit, the words scraping my throat raw. “Never let myself.”
Theo smiles, that smile that reached inside me from the very beginning. “And now?”
“Now I need you. And it should terrify me, but...” I take a shaky breath. “It feels like finally putting down something heavy I’ve been carrying my whole life.”
He rests his forehead against mine, our breath mingling in the quiet space between us. No demands. No expectations. Just this moment of being completely seen and still wanted.
I’ve spent my life being strong for others. The protector. The fighter. The unflinching coach. But here, wrapped in Theo’sarms, I discover that allowing myself to be held is its own kind of strength.
50
THEO
Victor comes back to my place at three in the morning.
He doesn’t talk much. He showers, gets into bed, presses his back against my chest, and is asleep inside two minutes. I lie awake for another hour with one hand on his ribs, counting breaths.
In the days that follow, he stays. He sleeps badly. He doesn’t talk about the bank, doesn’t talk about the Hartwell visit he made the same afternoon—I learn that name from Marco, not from him. He works on his laptop late, takes calls in the kitchen, and lets me feed him things he doesn’t taste.
The first piece falls into place by Wednesday. Reese Aguilar of Guardian Athletic, 2 PM, at the gym.
I get to the gym a half hour before Reese is due. Victor’s sat at the office desk, sleeves rolled, going through what looks like the kind of paperwork that doesn’t get done in daylight hours. He looks up when I come in. The shadows under his eyes haven’t moved in two days.
“You didn’t have to come,” he says.
“I do. Some of this is my doing.”
He doesn’t argue.
I sit on the corner of his desk the way I do when I want him to feel my weight. “Three things,” I say. “The rep’s name is Reese Aguilar. They use they/them. Senior Director of Partnerships at Guardian Athletic. They’re going to walk in here and pretend it’s a routine pitch, and it isn’t. They’ve been wanting in on you for years.”
Victor leans back in his chair. “Years.”
“Their CEO’s a former boxer. They’ve watched you build this place. Reese is the closer because Reese closes the deals the company actually wants. They flew in this morning.”
