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Zane slips through the narrow opening. He wears a dark hoodie pulled low over his forehead. He moves like a fugitive, casting a quick, paranoid glance down the corridor before shutting the door behind him. The lock clicks into place.

He looks completely wrung out. Dark circles bruise the delicate skin beneath his lashes. The punishing weight cut has left his cheekbones sharp and hollow. His golden skin lacks its usual vibrant warmth. His shoulders slump.

I don’t speak. I reach out, grip the thick fabric of his hoodie, and pull him forward.

He comes straight into my arms. I hold him until his grip on my shirt loosens. He buries his face in the crook of my neck and lets out a ragged, exhausted breath.

We stand in the narrow entryway. My arms wrap tightly around his torso. His hands clutch at the fabric of my T-shirt. I feel the rapid, uneven thud of his heart beating against my chest.

“I hate this.” Zane forces the words against my collarbone.

“I know.”

“Pretending I do not know you.” He lifts his head. The bedside lamp catches the raw exhaustion swimming in his amber eyes. “Pretending you are just an opponent. Looking at you across those press conference tables and not being able to reach out. Listening to reporters dissect our rivalry while my skin crawls.”

He steps back. He drags a shaking hand through his dark hair.

“How much longer?”

The question hangs in the heavy air.

I pull back just enough to hold his gaze. “What do you mean?”

“How much longer do we hide?” Zane paces toward the window. He stares through the gap in the blackout curtains, looking out at the city lights. “After the fight. After everything is done. Do we keep pretending forever? Sneak around these hotels like we are committing a crime?”

“We aren’t doing anything wrong.”

Zane spins around. His chest heaves. “Then why does it feel like we are? Why do I feel like I’m suffocating every time I walk into my own gym?”

I hate how scared he sounds. I don’t have a good answer. The truth is ugly and complicated.

I walk over to the edge of the mattress and sit down. I leave a wide space for him.

Zane crosses the room and drops onto the bed beside me. The springs groan under his weight. We sit in complete silence for a long minute. The hum of the old refrigerator fills the void.

“I came out at eighteen,” I tell him. My voice stays low and steady. “I lost my father. I spent years rebuilding my life in the open light. I swore I would never go back into the closet for anyone.”

I reach out and cover his hand with mine. His skin feels like ice.

“But this is not about me. It’s about you. Your readiness. Your timeline.”

Zane laces his fingers through mine. He grips my hand hard enough to grind the knuckles together. “What if I’m never ready? What if I spend the rest of my life too terrified to burn down the only legacy I have? My father built that gym. He built the entire empire on a specific image.”

“Then we figure it out together.” I squeeze his hand back. “I am not going anywhere. But I will not lie to you. Hiding forever is not an option for me. I need a life I don’t have to hide. I want you in it.”

I hate hurting him. I won’t lie to keep him here.

Zane flinches. A sharp breath hitches in his throat. He stares down at our locked hands.

“I don’t want to lose you.” His voice cracks.

“Then we work it out,” I tell him. “After the fight. We talk to Theo. We decide what we want people to know. Jason and Dan don’t get to make that call.”

Zane lifts his head. “And if I freeze? If I’m never ready?”

“You will be.” I reach up and cup his jaw. The rough stubble scratches against my palm. “I watched you these past weeks. You’re already different. Braver. More yourself. The man I met at that first press conference could not have admitted what he wanted. The man sitting in front of me right now did.”

Zane leans into my touch. He closes his eyes, soaking in the warmth of my hand. The rigid tension bleeds out of his neck.