Three days pass before Marcus shows up at my clinic.

"I don't have an appointment," he says, standing in my doorway like he's not sure he should be here.

"You don't need one." I try to keep my voice professional, but my heart is racing. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Everything." He runs a hand through his dark hair. "Can we talk?"

I should say no. Should maintain the boundaries I've spent my entire career building.

Instead, I lock the front door and flip the sign to closed.

He follows me to my treatment room, moving with that careful grace that makes my pulse flutter. In the bright afternoon light, I can see the healing cut above his eyebrow, the fading bruises along his ribs.

Evidence of violence that should terrify me.

Doesn't.

"How's training going?" I ask, busying myself with organizing supplies I've already organized twice today.

"Hard. Brutal. Murphy's got me working double sessions."

"Because of the championship fight."

"Yeah." His voice is flat. "Six weeks to prepare for the most important match of my life."

[sound of paper crinkling]

I turn to find him watching me with an expression I can't read.

"Sophia, about the other night—"

"It was just a kiss," I say quickly.

"Was it?"

The question makes me meet his eyes, and what I see there steals my breath.

Want. Raw and honest and completely unguarded.

"I can't stop thinking about you," he admits. "About the way you touch me when you're patching me up. Like I'm something worth fixing instead of just another bruised fighter."

"Marcus—"

"I know you have rules. Know you don't get involved with guys like me. But I need you to know—I'm falling for you, Doc. Hard and fast and completely against my better judgment."

[heartbeat, thundering]

The honesty in his voice unravels every defense I've built.

"I don't date fighters," I whisper.

"Why?"

The question I've been dreading.

"Because I've seen what happens. Watched too many women sit in hospital waiting rooms, praying their man comes home in one piece. Watched them try to love someone whose job is getting hurt."

"And you think that's what I'd do to you?"

"I think you'd try not to. But in six weeks, you'll step into that ring knowing you might not walk out. And I'll be watching, knowing I could lose you to something I have no control over."

He steps closer, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his skin.

"What if I told you it's different with you? That for the first time in my life, I have something worth being careful for?"

"I'd say you're not thinking clearly."

"I'd say you're scared."

The accusation hits like a physical blow because it's true.

I am scared. Terrified of wanting someone whose world is built on violence, whose body absorbs damage like other people absorb compliments.

"Maybe I am," I admit.

"So am I." His hand cups my face, thumb tracing along my cheekbone. "Scared of how much I want you. Scared of how gentle you make me feel. Scared that six weeks isn't enough time to prove I'm worth the risk."

[soft breathing]

I lean into his touch despite every logical thought screaming at me to step away.

"Show me your hands," I say quietly.

He holds them out, palms up. Bruised knuckles, tape residue around his wrists, calluses from years of training.

Hands built for fighting.

I trace my fingertips along his palm, feeling the contrast between rough skin and gentle touch.

"These hands could break me," I murmur.

"Never." His voice is fierce. "Never you, Sophia."

"Promise me."

"I promise."

Before I can stop myself, I lean up and kiss him.

This time it's not soft or tentative. This time it's desperate and hungry and full of all the want I've been trying to deny.

He responds immediately, arms wrapping around me, pulling me closer until there's no space between us.

[soft moan]

His mouth is warm, insistent, tasting like danger and possibility. His hands tangle in my hair, and I feel the careful control he maintains in every other part of his life slip just slightly.

Enough to show me the passion underneath.

When we break apart, we're both breathing hard.

"This is insane," I whisper against his lips.

"Completely."

"I don't know how to do this. How to care about someone who—"

"Who what?"

"Who might not come home."

The words hang between us like a confession.

Marcus rests his forehead against mine, breathing me in.

"Then don't think about six weeks from now," he says quietly. "Think about right now. About this moment."

"And after the fight?"

"After the fight, we figure out what comes next."

I want to argue. Want to point out all the reasons this is a terrible idea.

Instead, I kiss him again.

Because right now feels like the only certainty I have.

When my phone buzzes with a text, we spring apart like guilty teenagers.

Murphy's name flashes on the screen.

Need you at the gym tonight. Emergency. Marcus took a bad hit in sparring.

My blood turns to ice.

"What's wrong?" Marcus asks, seeing my expression.

I show him the text, and his face goes pale.

"That's impossible. I didn't have training today."

"Then who—"

Understanding hits us both at the same time.

Someone else is using his name. Someone who knows exactly how to get me to the gym after hours.

"It's a trap," Marcus says, already moving toward the door.

"For who?"

"For you." His voice is deadly serious. "Someone knows about us, Sophia. And they're using it against me."

The championship fight suddenly feels like the least dangerous thing in our future.

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