Candace’s chest presses to my back. Her thighs grip the sides of mine. Her body melts into me, fitting there with ease that feels inevitable. She doesn’t say a word, but her breath hits the base of my neck and it’s pure, unfiltered gasoline on a slow burn I’ve been trying to smother since the night she bet on me to win the fight.
The heat of her palms seeps through my shirt. The press of her body against me has every muscle locked tight to keep from pulling her closer. I want to pull her around and let her feel exactly what she does to me. Want to tip her chin up, slide my hands under that shirt, and taste every inch she’s tried to keep off limits.
But I don’t. I fire up the engine and ride us into the quiet.
The silence between us isn’t awkward. It’s charged. Tense. As though if either of us speaks, it’ll shatter the fragile thread of control we’re both clinging to. And maybe… maybe she’s clinging to it even harder than I am.
When we pull into the lot, the clubhouse is quieter than usual. Weeknight hush. The kind that wraps around you in a thick blanket.
“You eat yet?” I ask as she swings off the bike.
She shakes her head. “No. Place was slammed. Tournament coming up this weekend.” Her voice is tired. Not just physically. Worn around the edges, frayed from carrying too much weight for too long. The kind of tired that settles into your bones and makes you forget what it felt to be light. Her sigh says more than the words. She’s tired of that life, the forced smiles, the shitty tips, the people who look straight through her as though she’s furniture.
“Maggie dropped off a casserole.”
She hums at that, tongue peeking out to swipe her bottom lip. I stare too long. Again.
Inside, a few of the guys are half-watchingDie Hardwith beers in hand. They nod as we pass, but we keep walking up the stairs to the space above it all. My room. Our room if I let myself imagine things I shouldn’t.
She sits on the edge of my bed, appearing to test it. Appearing to test me. Her fingers brush along the comforter, uncertain whether to get comfortable or run.
“Do you think you’ll stay here forever?” she asks.
I lean back against the counter. “Never really thought about it. It works for now. But maybe one day… if I get married, have a family, I’ll get a house.”
She doesn’t react much. But her eyes roam the room, already redesigning it. Picturing a future and trying not to.
“There’s potential here,” she says. “Could be more than just a bedroom.”
“You’ve been thinking about this?”
She shrugs. Not answering is answer enough. Her gaze flicks toward her guitar in the corner. The one she never plays for me. Her thumb rubs a small scar near her wrist, the nervous habit she always has when lyrics swirl in her head but won’t come out loud. A beat she keeps when the silence feels too sharp.
Microwave beeps. I stir the food, trying to ignore how close she’s sitting. How her bare midriff is just right there. How she keeps chewing her bottom lip like it’s not driving me fucking insane. The shirt rides up every time she shifts, revealing smooth skin I’ve imagined under different circumstances, under different lighting, under me.
“I’ve got two fights this weekend. Want to come?”
She hesitates. Long enough that I almost regret asking. “Yeah,” she says, low. “I like watching you fight.”
She still won’t look at me. Instead, she picks at a thread like it might unravel the part of her she’s holding together with duct tape and pride. Like if she tugs too hard, the whole thing might come undone.
“Think you and I could start sparring?” she asks suddenly. “I miss it. The training. The… focus.”
“Hell yeah. I go to Coach Tompkins’ three times a week. You should come.”
“I can’t—”
“Money’s not an issue.”
The second I say it, I see the fire light behind her eyes. She hates that. The idea of being someone’s burden, even if the only one making her feel that way is her.
Then her shoulders drop, just this once too tired to keep fighting me. For one second, it might be a relief not to stand alone.
“Okay.”
We eat standing. The silence is comfortable but tense. The air between us is thick enough to drown in. Her fork scrapes the plate softly, her fingers tapping an absent rhythm against the countertop edge. One I’ve started to recognize. One she uses to keep the world from closing in.
“I’ve got a proposition,” I say finally. She gives me a sidelong glance, chewing. “Kyle’s patching in soon. I need him more at the shop, which opens up a spot at the bar. I want you to take it.”
