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The referee points to me. “You ready?”

I raise my hands. I shift my weight onto my back foot, finding my perfect balance. The lingering ache from the dehydration vanishes, replaced by a roaring, unquenchable fire in my blood. I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. I’m facing the only man who truly sees me.

I nod.

The referee steps back. He drops his hand in a sharp, slicing motion.

“Let’s get it on!”

The bell rings.

The arena erupts into chaos.

Micah does not circle. He doesn’t feel out the distance. He launches forward like a missile fired from a silo.

He crosses the canvas in two explosive strides. He throws a blistering left jab aimed squarely at my nose. The speed is staggering. The venom behind the strike is entirely genuine.

I slip my head to the outside. The wind of his leather glove grazes my ear.

I plant my lead foot. I twist my hips, transferring my entire body weight into my right shoulder. I fire a devastating cross aimed directly at his jaw.

Micah ducks underneath the strike. He steps into my pocket, closing the distance instantly. He buries a heavy, punishing left hook deep into my ribs.

The impact knocks the breath out of me. Pain flares hot and sharp along my side, a brilliant flash of agony that grounds me entirely in the present moment.

He hits like a freight train. He kept his promise.

A feral grin stretches across my face beneath the plastic mouthpiece. I pivot my lead foot, generating torque from the canvas. I throw a brutal roundhouse kick targeting his lead leg.

My shinbone connects solidly with his thigh. The wet, heavy smack of bone on muscle echoes loud enough to cut through the deafening roar of the crowd.

Micah flinches. A sharp breath hisses through his teeth. But he does not retreat. He eats the damage and steps forward again, demanding an inside war.

We plant our feet in the center of the octagon.

We abandon caution. We abandon the meticulous game plans constructed by our corners. We bite down on our mouthpieces and we swing.

He throws a rapid four-punch combination. Right cross, left hook, right uppercut, left hook. I block the first two strikes with my forearms, feeling the heavy thud vibrate through my bones.

The uppercut splits my guard. His glove smashes into my chin. My head snaps back. Stars burst across my vision in brilliant flashes of white light.

I stumble backward. My heel hits the chain-link fence.

Micah swarms me. He traps me against the cage, unleashing a barrage of body shots intended to break my ribs. The crowd screams, a wall of pure sound pressing against my skin.

I raise my guard, absorbing the punishment. I wait for the microscopic opening.

He drops his right hand a fraction of an inch to load up a heavy hook.

I explode forward. I drive my shoulder into his chest, wrapping my arms tight around his waist. I lift him entirely off the canvas. I use his own forward momentum against him, twisting my hips and slamming him down onto the mat with brutal, undeniable authority.

The impact forces a loud exhale from his lungs.

I land in his full guard. His thick, muscular thighs wrap tight around my waist, locking me into his domain.

The position is incredibly intimate. We’ve occupied this exact arrangement in hotel rooms. He wrapped these same legs around my back while I buried myself deep inside him. We shared breath. We shared secrets.

Now, we fight for survival under the glare of a dozen television cameras.