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Thirty-seven.

The counter beneath the audio file glares back at me. Thirty-seven times I’ve listened to his voice.

“When you’re ready to stop running.” Micah’s quiet admission fills the dark bedroom.

I’m not ready. I don’t know if I will ever be ready. The walls I’ve spent twenty-eight years reinforcing are turning to dust around me.

The next morning, the air inside Ironside MMA feels stifling. I slam a brutal right cross into the heavy bag. The leather groans under the impact.

Jason paces the mat. He moves like a shark, all dark eyes and tailored authority, watching my every strike. The rematch negotiations are already underway. Ironside demands a decisive victory, and the draw against a gym like Oath remains a permanent stain on our pristine record.

Jason steps in, catching the swinging bag with one flat palm. The impact kills the momentum instantly.

“No more draws.” Jason drops his voice, flattening out the words, expecting immediate compliance. “You put him down and you keep him down. Understood?”

I nod mechanically.

Put him down.

My mind flashes to the canvas. My hips pressing into Micah’s. The searing heat radiating off his skin as we grappled for dominance.

Keep him down.

Pinning him against the tile wall in the commission showers, the steam slicking his chest, his mouth inches from mine. The way he looked back at me as he rushed away.

Blood rushes southward. My pulse pounds a heavy, erratic rhythm against my ribs.

I step back, breaking eye contact with Jason.

“Excuse me.”

I push into the bathroom and splash cold water over my face. It does fuck all. I can still hear Micah’s breath against my neck. I can’t keep doing this.

An hour later, I pack my gear. My muscles ache, begging for rest. As I cross the common area toward the exit, Dan and two Ironside fighters lounge on the leather sofas, eyes glued to a sports recap on the flat-screen.

“You see that interview with Rivera?” Dan scoffs, tossing a half-empty water bottle onto the coffee table. “Talking about how Oath is so inclusive. What a joke.”

A cold sweat breaks across my neck.

“More like a safe space for f⁠—”

The slur hits me like a knee to the liver.

Laughter erupts. Casual, careless cruelty. I’ve heard this garbage my entire life. I’ve stood silently by while my father spewed it, while the gym absorbed it and made it gospel.

“They’re probably all fucking each other.” Reyes leans back, smirking. “No wonder they can’t fight for shit.”

My hands ball into fists. My knuckles turn stark white.

Micah would break your jaw in twenty seconds flat.

My breathing turns shallow. I stand paralyzed in the doorway, staring at the back of their heads, a violent urge building in my chest.

“Butler, you good?” Dan spots me out of the corner of his eye. His smirk falters.

I force my hands to unclench. Let out a slow breath.

“Fine.” I shoulder my gym bag. “Just tired.”