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Micah shifts his weight. The old springs of the sofa creak. “You don’t know that for sure. People surprise you.”

“I do know.” I open my eyes and stare up at the water stain shaped like a map on his ceiling. “He used to make comments. Slurs. Whenever a fighter was too flashy, or didn’t fit his exact mold of a traditional, masculine warrior. He despised weakness. He viewed anything outside his narrow worldview as an infection.”

I turn my head and press my face into Micah’s stomach. “If I come out, I don’t just lose the bigoted fans. I lose the gym. I lose the legacy. I lose the only connection to my father I have left.”

“You lose the cage he built for you.”

I look up at his face. His striking features are soft, bathed in the warm yellow glow of a cheap floor lamp. The scar slicing through his right eyebrow gives him a fierce, dangerous edge inside the octagon, but right now, his eyes hold nothing but compassion.

“It’s terrifying,” I admit. The confession leaves me hollow.

“I know it is.” Micah slides his thumb across my cheekbone, catching a stray drop of moisture I didn’t realize had spilled over. “Although my dad isn't dead, he might as well be since he cut me out of his life. It hurts, Zane. It still hurts on the holidays. It hurts when I win a big fight and realize my phone isn’t going to ring.”

He traces the sharp line of my jaw. “But pretending to be a straight guy? Hiding in locker rooms and biting my tongue when the guys made jokes? That was killing me. It rotted my insides. The silence from my dad hurts like hell, but at least the voice in my own head is mine now.”

I listen. I reach up and capture his hand. I press his palm against my mouth. His skin tastes like salt and warmth. I kiss the center of his palm.

“Saturday night. We step into that cage. The entire world watches us tear each other apart. Dan will be in my corner screaming at me to break your jaw. Victor will be in yours telling you to put me to sleep. And then what?”

“Then we put on a show.” Micah leans down. His face hovers inches from mine. “We give them the best damn fight this division has ever seen. You hit me with everything you have. I hit you back harder. We leave all the frustration and the fear on the canvas.”

“And when the final bell rings?”

“When the bell rings, the war is over.” He brushes his lips against my forehead. The touch sends a jolt of electricity straight down my spine. “You go back to your corner. I go back to mine. We shake hands. We handle the press conference. And then you come back here. You get into bed with me. We ice our bruises and we order shitty Chinese takeout.”

A laugh escapes my throat. It sounds harsh and desperate in the quiet apartment. “You make it sound so effortless.”

“It is effortless, Zane.” He locks his dark eyes onto mine. The intensity in them steals my breath. “The world outside this room is a mess. Ironside is a mess. The media is a circus waiting for blood. But this?” He gestures between us. “This isn’t hard. I want you. You want me. The rest is just noise.”

I sit up. I grab the strings of his sweatpants and pull him forward until our knees bump. My hands grip his hips. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You’re going to punch me in the face on national television,” he points out, a small, arrogant smirk playing on his lips. “It’s literally in the contract.”

“You know what I mean. The aftermath. The fallout. If the media finds out about us before I’m ready... the backlash will bleed onto you. They’ll say the fight was rigged. They’ll drag your name through the mud.”

The playfulness drains from his expression. He frames my face with both hands. “You won’t break me. I’m not made of glass. I survived growing up in a neighborhood that swallowed kids whole. I survived losing Carlos to a stray bullet. I survived my father cutting me off. I can survive you figuring your shit out.”

I lean my forehead against his. The crushing anxiety that gripped my chest all day begins to ease. With Micah, the armor isn’t required. The undefeated golden boy of Ironside doesn’t exist in this tiny studio. Here, I can admit I’m scared, and he doesn’t think less of me.

“I’m going to come out,” I say.

The declaration hangs in the air between us. Heavy. Real. Final.

Micah pulls back slightly. His eyes search mine. “You don’t have to do it for me. Not right away. I told you I’m not pushing.”

“I’m not doing it for you. I’m doing it for me.” I trace the tribal tattoo on his left arm, letting my fingers follow the dark ink that honors his brother. “I can’t live in the shadows anymore. I can’t keep smiling at Dan while he uses my father to manipulate my emotions. I can’t keep pretending I don’t want to hold your hand when we walk down the street.”

He swallows hard. I watch his Adam’s apple bob. The fierce emotion swimming in his dark eyes makes my chest ache in the best possible way.

“When?” his voice drops to a rough whisper.

“After the fight. Let the dust settle. Let them talk about the war we put on in the cage. Give it a few weeks. Then... I don’t know. An interview. A post online. We’ll sit down with your PR guy Theo and figure it out.” I pull him closer. “But I need you to know I’m not running anymore. That version of Zane Butler is dead.”

“Good.” Micah’s voice shakes slightly. “I never liked that guy anyway.”

“Liar. You couldn’t keep your eyes off me at the weigh-ins.”

“You were staring at my ass in the commission showers.”