Afterward, we lie tangled together in my bedroom. The space has always felt like an extension of my public self—dark furniture, plain gray walls, a few framed photos of my biggest fights. No art, no color. Just function and reminders of my strength. Now, with Theo’s smaller frame pressed against me, the room suddenly feels like it belongs to a stranger.
My fingers trace the marks I’ve left on his skin, gentler than I’ve ever been. The tears have stopped, but the ache remains—like I’ve been cracked open, everything I’ve kept locked away now exposed. I feel exposed in ways I’ve never allowed myself to be before.
“I’m terrified,” I whisper into the darkness, the words escaping before I can stop them.
Theo shifts beside me. “Of what?”
My throat tightens. I’ve spent a lifetime hiding fear, transforming it into aggression in the ring, into dominance in business, into control in bed. But here, with the taste of my own tears still on my lips, I can’t hide anymore.
“Of you. Of this. Of who I become when I’m with you.”
The man I am with Theo bears no resemblance to Victor Kaine, fight club owner, the man who’s never shown weakness, never backed down, never surrendered control. The version of me that exists in this bed, in his arms—he’s a stranger I’m only beginning to know.
Theo turns to face me, his eyes reflecting the faint city light filtering through my blinds. His hand comes up to cup my jaw, thumb brushing across my lower lip. There’s a gravity to his touch that anchors me when I feel like I might float away from myself entirely.
“Then learn,” he says, voice steady despite the vulnerability in his eyes. “Learn to be scared and do it anyway. Or let me go now, before I fall any deeper.”
But we both know Theo’s already fallen. We both have.
The realization sits heavy in my chest, terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure. There’s no going back to who I was before him. That man is gone, transformed by every touch, every glance, every moment I’ve let Theo see parts of me no one else ever has.
36
VICTOR
Three nights. Seventy-two hours of sleeplessness, of staring at my ceiling like it holds the answers I can’t find inside myself. My bed feels too empty, too cold. I keep reaching for him in the darkness.
At the gym, I’m a ghost. I move through training sessions, business meetings, fighter consultations—all on autopilot while my mind circles the same questions.
Who am I if not the man I’ve built myself to be? What remains of Victor Kaine if I tear down these walls?
The third night, I sit on my balcony until dawn, nursing a whiskey I barely taste. The city lights blur before me as memories of Theo flash through my mind—his smile when I finally admitted I liked his music, the way he curls against me in sleep, how he sees straight through my bullshit with those perceptive eyes.
By morning, I know what I have to do.
The fourth night, I drive to his building. Park across the street where I can see his windows—lights on, meaning he’s home. My hands grip the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turn white.
Everything I’ve built feels suddenly precarious. My reputation. My business. The respect I’ve earned. Seven years of building Kaine’s Fight Club from nothing, creating something that’s mine, something that can’t be taken from me the way fighting was when my knee gave out.
Or so I thought.
One hour passes as I sit in my car. One hour of rehearsing words that feel inadequate, of imagining scenarios where I walk away, where I drive home and pretend these past months never happened.
But they did happen. He happened. And sitting here now, heart pounding like I’m about to step into the ring for the fight of my life, I realize the truth I’ve been running from:
I’ve never been more myself than when I’m with Theo.
Micah’s words keep echoing in my head. “Half the guys here aren’t straight.” Half. And they’ve all been hiding, watching their words, careful not to let anything slip because they thought I wouldn’t approve. Because of the environment I created.
I grip the steering wheel tighter, shame burning through me like acid. All this time, I’ve been terrified of losing everything—my gym, my fighters’ respect—based on a lie I’ve been telling myself. I created a prison of silence and trapped everyone in it, not just me.
I close my eyes, seeing Jonah, Remy, Cruz... guys who trust me with their careers, their dreams, their physical well-being. Guys who couldn’t trust me with their truth because I couldn’t face my own.
And Theo... God, Theo’s face when he asked if I was ashamed of him. Those eyes that usually dance with mischief are still and serious. The slight tremble in his voice that he tried to hide. “Are you ashamed of me, Victor?” The question hung between us like a noose around my neck. All this time, he’s been chipping away at it, brick by brick- alone and fighting to reach me.
I couldn’t answer him. Couldn’t find the words to explain that it wasn’t shame—it was fear. Fear that’s been ruling me since I was a kid trying to prove I was tough enough, man enough.
I remember the way he held me that night, when everything broke open inside me. My body shaking with sobs I couldn’t control, tears I’d been holding back my whole life. Decades of pretending to be invulnerable, unbreakable—all of it crumbling in his arms.
