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“The fight.” Victor tilts his head, the movement slow and deliberate. “Or the rest of it?”

The silence in the borrowed office stretches tight. The distant thud of a jump rope hitting the training mats echoes through the open door. I consider dodging the question. I consider offering a manufactured media response about training camps and title fights.

“Both,” I admit.

Victor nods slowly. He doesn’t push. He simply turns back to the laptop and closes the lid, signaling the end of the film study.

Night falls over Chicago. Streetlights shine through the plastic blinds of the rental as I unpack two cartons of pad thai on the kitchenette counter. I leave one closed for Zane.

The brass deadbolt clicks.

The door swings open, and Zane steps over the threshold.

He looks completely hollowed out. The punishing weight cut strips the fullness from his cheeks, leaving the sharp, aristocratic bones jutting against pale skin. The dark circles under his amber eyes look like fresh bruises. He wears a faded black hoodie pulled low, hiding the face that currently plasters every sports network in the country. He shuts the door and leans his broad back against the wood.

“Two more days,” I say, crossing the room to pull him close.

“Two more days.” Zane echoes the phrase like a dying man reciting a prayer.

He collapses forward into my arms. I wrap my hands around his wide torso, holding him up. He buries his face in the curve of my neck, letting out a long, ragged exhale that sends a shiver straight down my spine. The smell of him fills my lungs. Cedar, cold sweat, and raw exhaustion.

I walk us backward toward the kitchenette. “You need to eat.”

Zane shakes his head against my collarbone. “Not hungry.”

“You are starving.” I grip his waist and lift.

I hoist him up onto the laminate counter. He goes willingly, letting his long legs fall open so I can step directly between his thighs. He is close enough to kiss. The undefeated Ironside king sits elevated on my cheap kitchen counter, completely stripped of his armor, waiting for instruction.

I grab a plastic fork from the drawer. I spear a bite of chicken and rice from the container.

“Open,” I command softly.

Zane opens his mouth. I feed him the bite. His amber eyes never leave mine. He chews slowly, his throat working as he swallows the warm food. A grain of rice catches on the corner of his lip. I brush it away with my thumb.

Zane lets out a dark, wrecked groan.

His hands slide under the hem of my t-shirt. His large, calloused palms flatten against my bare stomach, burning hot against my skin. He pulls my hips flush against the edge of the counter, trapping me exactly where he wants me.

“Stay with me,” he whispers. “Please.”

I drop the fork into the carton. I grab the hem of his dark hoodie and pull it over his head. I toss the thick fabric onto the linoleum floor. I reach for the waistband of his sweatpants, dragging them down his muscular thighs, tossing his underwear into the same discarded pile.

He sits completely naked under the harsh kitchen light. The contrast between his golden skin and the worn laminate counter is staggering.

I strip my own clothes off in three frantic motions. I reach for the bottle of silicone lube sitting on the small shelf beside the microwave. I pour a heavy pool of the cold liquid into my palm.

“I need you inside me.” Zane grips my bare shoulders. His nails dig tiny crescent moons into my flesh. “Right now.”

I coat my fingers. I reach between his spread thighs, finding his tight entrance. He gasps, arching his spine backward, exposing his throat. I work two fingers inside him, stretching the hot, slick muscle with a firm, relentless pressure. He melts against my hand instantly, his internal walls clenching and releasing around my digits.

“You’re so fucking ready for this,” I mutter, replacing my fingers with the blunt head of my cock.

I grip his hips. My thumbs dig deep into the sharp ridges of his hip bones. I drive forward in one long, agonizingly slow push.

The heat swallows me entirely. I bury myself to the hilt, groaning as the immense pressure grips my shaft. Zane throws his head back, a shout tearing past his lips. His hands fly to my back, locking around my ribs, anchoring me deep inside his body.

I stop moving.