But I also refuse to shrink so he can feel safer.
“Can you do both?” I asked him in the gym. “Fight and feel?”
The truth is, I’m asking myself the same question.
I learned to compartmentalize early. There are versions of you that survive, and versions that speak. They are not always the same. When I told him there was a time when I didn’t trust myself with my own thoughts, that was the cleanest way to say it without pulling him into something he isn’t prepared to carry.
There were white walls. Locked doors. Evaluations written in neutral language about instability and recovery. There were days when I questioned whether my own mind was an ally or an enemy.
That season did not destroy me.
It disciplined me.
But it also taught me how to reveal only what is necessary.
Luke doesn’t need the whole story yet. Not because I’m afraid he’ll run. Not because I’m hiding in shame. But because timing matters. He is just beginning to untangle the damage Megan left behind. If I unload the full weight of my history into his hands too soon, it won’t deepen our intimacy. It will destabilize it.
And I will not build something meaningful on emotional shock.
Especially not when he needs to stay focused on his upcoming opponent. I can’t be another opponent he has to face over the next twelve weeks. We started as friends. We grew into something else without planning it. If Megan can still rattle him after all this time, then I won’t be the storm that knocks him sideways while he’s trying to find his footing.
But that doesn’t mean Iam fragile.
When we reach his truck, he opens the door for me without thinking. It's not the gesture, it’s the consistency that catches me. Consistency is harder than romance. Consistency is where character lives.
“You’re quiet,” he says once we’re inside.
“I’m thinking.”
“About?”
“About whether you believe what you said this morning.”
He turns slightly toward me. “I do.”
“Good,” I answer.
Because that’s what I require now. Not grand speeches. Not dramatic intensity. Alignment.
What happened on stage wasn’t a performance. It was a choice. I chose to reach for him. I chose to trust him with proximity. I chose to risk humiliation in front of a room full of people.
Now I’m choosing something quieter.
I’m choosing patience.
He worries about drifting in the ring when he has something to lose. I worry about what will happen when he learns the full scope of what loving me entails. The pro circuits are ruthless. Promoters dig. They want to knowanything and everything that could pop up and potentially derail a career. Sponsors evaluate the image behind the face of their products. Fighters are marketed as symbols of strength and stability.
My past is neither a scandal nor a crime. But it is complicated. And complicated narratives become liabilities in the wrong headlines.I stare out the windshield as he starts the engine, and I make a decision that has nothing to do with protecting him.
I will not apologize for surviving.
If the time comes when my history surfaces, I will stand in it without shrinking. I will not let it define me. I will not let it define us. And I will not preemptively disqualify myself from something good because it once hurt to exist inside my own mind.
If he can learn to fight without drifting, I can learn to love without disappearing.
Pop used to say character isn’t proven when everything is steady. It’s proven when something threatens to shake you, and you decide not to move.
We started on thin ice, yes. But thin ice teaches you balance.
