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Ryan sets his Americano down. “I’d love to.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

A warm glow spreads through my chest.

His phone buzzes on the table, and he glances at the screen. “James. I’d better take this. It’ll be about the Razor Athletics shoot I’ve got coming up.”

He gets up and heads outside into the drizzle, no jacket.

A new Razor Athletics shoot? I think back to the photo I found that first night I looked him up. Ryan in nothing but compression shorts. Black and very snug in all the right places.

Well. I wonder if there will be any more photos like that at the next shoot. Perhaps I could tag along? Purely out of a professional interest, of course. After all, I work on photo shoots myself these days. It would be useful to see how a sportswear campaign operates.

Yep. Strictly professional reasons.

I have some more cake, then wrap my hands round my latte and watch his back through the glass. He’s standing with one hand in his pocket, specks of drizzle dotting his T-shirt across those broad shoulders.

I let out a little sigh of contentment.

Of course, as much as I appreciate the broad shoulders and the wonders of compression shorts, there’s more to Ryan than his body. I genuinely love spending time with him. For the last few weeks, we haven’t spent a single night apart. At first we alternated between his flat and mine, but more and more we’ve ended up at his. There’s more space, and his super king bed beats my cosy double hands down. He’s even bought Penny a bed of her own for his place.

He’s attentive like that. The other day I mentioned I was running low on my favourite hand cream. It wasn’t a hint—I only said it to remind myself to pick some up. But when I got in from work, there were two pots of it waiting on his kitchen island.

The door opens, and Ryan comes back in, damp from the rain. He drops into the seat opposite me.

I can’t help myself. “So, this photo shoot…is it something I could come along to see?”

He blinks at me. For a second he looks confused, as if he’s forgotten all about the shoot. “What? Oh, aye, if you like. Mara’s involved in it, actually.” He leans forward. “But…that’s actually no what James was calling about.”

His voice drops, so I lean in too.

“Cruz is out,” he says quietly.

“Out?”

“His leg. All those low kicks Vale threw in the back half of the fight. Turns out it’s worse than anybody realised at first, Cruz included. They’re talking surgery and an open-ended spell out. And at his age, and wi’ all the wear and tear he’s picked up over the years, he’s decided he’s no coming back. He’ll be announcing his retirement soon.”

“That poor man.”

“Aye.” Ryan rubs his jaw. “But the NMFC promised the fans a rematch. So now they want Vale to defend his new belt against the next contender instead.”

It takes me a second. “You?”

“Me. Next big European card is Paris, tenth of October. They want Vale–Sloan as the main event.”

This is what Ryan has been waiting for, his shot at the championship. It’s what he’s been working towards since he was fourteen. But having seen Vale fight, I don’t like the thought of Ryan going up against him. Not one bit.

Still, I force myself to smile. “Congratulations, I guess?”

He waves it away. “I’ve no exactly earned it. I’m getting my shot by default. A good fighter’s body gave out, that’s all.”

But he can’t quite hide it. He’s pleased. There are other emotions in there too, but he’s definitely pleased.

He reaches across the table and takes my hand. “Will you come? You said you were gonnae take some time off. There’s worse places to spend it than Paris.”

The city of love, with Ryan. Obviously that sounds wonderful. It’s just not quite the reason I’d have picked to go.