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“Any regrets?” I echo an interview question a reporter hurled at him last month.
Zane runs his thumb over my knuckles. “Only the years I wasted being afraid.” He squeezes my hand. “Not a single regret since you.”
We clear the table. We argue over dish duty. I push him against the refrigerator, pinning his wrists to the cool metal door. We make out until we have to pull apart, laughing.
Ordinary. Mundane. Perfect.
We fought a war for this reality. Not for championship belts or heavy legacies or the approval of men who viewed us as assets. We bled for this shared life. The freedom to exist.
I look at the man across the kitchen. My future.
“Ready to go?” I ask.
Zane smiles. He grabs his keys from the counter.
“Yeah. Let’s go.”
We walk out the door together.
We drive through Ravenwood Hollow. We leave the quiet, tree-lined streets of our neighborhood and navigate the cracked asphalt near the gym. Zane drives his truck. He rests his right hand on my thigh, his thumb drawing lazy circles against my denim jeans. He keeps his hand there when we stop at a red light.
We pull into the gravel lot behind Oath MMA. The heavy thud of jump ropes and the sharp crack of shinbones hitting leather pads filter through the open warehouse doors.
“Prepare yourself,” I warn, unbuckling my seatbelt. “Theo is armed with fabric swatches today.”
Zane groans, dropping his forehead against the steering wheel. “Tell him I’m wearing a standard black suit. I refuse to look like a velvet disco ball.”
“You tell him. He ignores me.”
We step inside the humid, echoing cavern of the gym.
Cruz and Jonah grapple on the center mat. Cruz catches sight of us and waves a sweaty, taped hand.
“Look who decided to show up!” Jonah yells, breaking the hold. “Thought you two retired to bake sourdough bread!”
“I will choke you out in ten seconds flat, Jonah,” Zane calls back, his tone casual and sharp.
“Big talk for a guy who got submitted by Rivera last night!” Cruz taunts.
Zane chuckles. He doesn’t flinch at the locker room banter. He embraces it. The Oath guys test him, push his boundaries, and he fires back with equal venom. He earned their respect on the canvas, and he earned their friendship by leaving his ego at the door.
“Zane Butler!” A loud, manic voice shrieks from the front office.
Theo marches across the mats. He holds a clipboard in one hand and a yellow measuring tape looped around his neck. He wears a tailored maroon blazer that looks wildly out of place among the heavy bags and cage wire.
“Do not run from me, Butler.” Theo points a manicured finger. “The gala is in six days. The press will dissect your outfits. We need measurements.”
“I own suits, Theo.” Zane crosses his arms.
“You own Ironside suits.” Theo wrinkles his nose. “Stiff, boring, tragic corporate armor. We’re making a statement. Arms up.”
Zane shoots me a pleading look.
I raise my hands in surrender. “You are on your own, man.”
Zane sighs. He lifts his arms. Theo wraps the measuring tape around his wide chest, muttering numbers and scribbling on the clipboard.
Victor steps out of his office. His massive frame casts a long shadow across the blue vinyl. He watches Theo wrangle the former undefeated king with a faint, proud smirk lifting the corner of his mouth.
