When Micah leaves, I slump back in my chair, stunned.
All those nights I’ve stayed late with him on the mat—months of late-night sessions working the same pivot, the one that’s never quite there yet. He comes back after everyone else leaves, and I find him alone on the floor with the lights still up. We work in silence. He’s never said why he stays late. I’ve never asked.
Half my gym. Half my fighters. Not straight. And me—their fucking leader, their example—too terrified to admit who I am. Too afraid to stand beside the man I...
The man I love.
The realization hits me like a right hook I never saw coming. I love Theo. And I’ve spent over eight months punishing us both because I was trapped in a prison of my own making.
I’ve been so consumed with maintaining this image—the hypermasculine fighter, the tough gym owner, the straight man—that I’ve been blind to the reality around me. My fighters weren’t waiting to judge me; they were waiting for permission to be themselves.
I’ve been the one enforcing the silence. I’ve been the architect of my own closet, hammering in nails, reinforcing walls that only existed in my head.
“Fuck,” I whisper to the empty office.
Outside, the gym slowly empties. The lights dim. Still, I sit motionless, staring at my phone on the desk. Theo’s contact information glows on the screen, his profile picture—a shot I took of him mixing at Eclipse—staring back at me.
An hour passes. The cleaning crew comes and goes. I barely notice.
Finally, I pick up the phone. My thumb hovers over the call button for several seconds before I press it.
One ring. Two. Three.
“This is Theo. You know what to do.” Beep.
I hang up without leaving a message. He’s screening my calls. Can’t blame him.
I try again. Straight to voicemail this time.
“This is Theo. You know what to do.”
But I don’t. I don’t know what to do. For the first time in my life, I’m completely lost.
I stare at the screen, thumbs hovering over the keyboard. What can I possibly say that would make up for eight months of hiding? For treating him like my dirty secret when he was the best thing that ever happened to me?
I type three simple words:We need to talk. Please.
My thumb presses send before I can overthink it. The message shows as delivered, but not read.
34
THEO
The bass rattles my chest as I transition into the next track, fingers working the mixer while the crowd below me moves like a single organism. Eclipse is heaving tonight—bodies pressed together, the air thick with perfume, cologne, and sweat. Perfect. This is exactly what I need.
Three weeks, four days, and seventeen hours since I walked out of Grind House. Not that I’m counting.
I slide the fader up, letting the new beat build underneath the current track, watching the crowd respond instinctively to the shift in energy. Behind the decks is the one place where everything makes sense, where I’m in complete control.
My phone sits face up next to my equipment. I force my eyes away from it for the hundredth time tonight. Victor’s text from yesterday is still unanswered.
We need to talk. Please.
What’s left to say? Eight months of us, and he couldn’t even call me his... anything.
The transition hits perfectly, and the crowd roars as the new track takes over. I ride the high for exactly thirty-seven seconds before my eyes drift back to the silent phone.
Sloane appears at the edge of the DJ booth, signaling that my relief has arrived for my break. I nod, set up the last track to play through, and slip off my headphones.
