Blood drips onto the concrete floor of Murphy's Gym.

I shouldn't be here. Shouldn't be watching Marcus Reeves pummel another man into submission while my heart hammers against my ribs like it's trying to escape.

But here I am anyway, medical bag clutched in white-knuckled hands, because Murphy pays me double overtime to patch up his fighters after hours.

Marcus lands a brutal hook to his opponent's jaw. [sharp crack of impact]

The other man goes down hard, stays down, and the small crowd erupts in cheers that echo off the brick walls.

I've been coming here for six months, but I've never seen Marcus fight before. Never understood why the other fighters speak his name with equal parts fear and respect.

Now I know.

He's beautiful and terrifying in equal measure. All controlled violence and lethal precision, moving like a predator who knows exactly how much damage he can do.

When the referee calls the fight, Marcus doesn't celebrate. Just rolls his shoulders, shakes hands with his fallen opponent, and walks toward the corner where I'm waiting with my supplies.

His dark eyes find mine across the gym.

And suddenly I can't breathe.

"Hey, Doc," he says, settling onto the stool in front of me.

I'm not a doctor—just a sports therapist who specializes in trauma recovery—but he's called me that since the first night I stitched up his split lip with hands that shook from more than professional concern.

"Hey yourself." I try to keep my voice steady while I examine his face. "How do you feel?"

"Like I could go another ten rounds."

But I can see the micro-expressions he's hiding. The slight tightness around his eyes that means his ribs hurt. The way he's favoring his left shoulder.

"Liar," I say softly, reaching for the antiseptic.

His smile transforms his entire face. "You know me too well, Sophia."

The way he says my name—low and rough like he's tasting it—makes warmth spread through my chest.

I clean the cut above his eyebrow with careful precision, hyperaware of how close we are. How his breathing syncs with mine. How his skin feels fever-warm under my fingertips.

"This needs stitches," I murmur.

"Whatever you say, Doc."

He sits perfectly still while I work, but I can feel his gaze on my face like a physical touch. Can smell his skin—sweat and something cleaner underneath that makes me want to lean closer.

"There," I say finally, stepping back to admire my work.

"Thanks." His fingers brush mine as he reaches for a towel. "You've got magic hands."

[heartbeat, faster]

The words are innocent enough, but the way he's looking at me makes heat pool low in my belly.

"Just doing my job."

"Is that all this is?" he asks quietly.

The question hangs between us like a challenge.

Because no, it's not just a job. Hasn't been since the second week, when I realized I was coming here as much to see him as to earn money.

Since I started timing my arrivals to his training schedule.

Since I started looking forward to these moments when it's just us in the corner, my hands on his skin, his complete attention focused on me like I'm the only thing that matters.

"Marcus—"

"I know." He stands, suddenly towering over me. "I know you don't date fighters. Know you think guys like me are trouble."

"Are you?" I whisper. "Trouble?"

His thumb traces along my jawline, and I shiver.

"The worst kind," he admits.

But then he leans down and presses his lips to mine, soft as a whisper, gentle as a prayer.

[soft intake of breath]

The kiss lasts exactly three seconds. Long enough to turn my world upside down. Short enough to leave me aching for more.

When he pulls back, his eyes are dark with something that looks like regret.

"I'm sorry," he starts, but I press my fingers to his lips.

"Don't be."

We stare at each other in the dim corner of the gym, the air between us crackling with possibility.

"Sophia." His voice is rough. "I—"

"Reeves!" Murphy's voice cuts through the moment like a blade. "Get over here. We need to talk about your next fight."

Marcus's jaw tightens, but he doesn't move away from me.

"Go," I say softly. "I'll be here when you're done."

"Promise?"

The vulnerability in his voice undoes me.

"Promise."

He kisses my forehead—soft, reverent—and walks toward Murphy.

I watch him go, fingers pressed to my lips where I can still taste him.

Sweet and dangerous and absolutely nothing like I expected.

When I turn to pack up my medical supplies, I find Murphy watching me with knowing eyes.

"That boy's been half in love with you since day one," he says.

My hands still on the antiseptic bottle.

"He's trouble, Sophia. Good trouble, but trouble all the same. Question is—you brave enough to handle it?"

Before I can answer, Marcus's voice rises from across the gym.

"What do you mean, title shot? Murphy, I'm not ready—"

"You're as ready as you're gonna get, son. Championship fight. Six weeks. Winner takes the underground belt and a hundred grand."

My blood turns to ice.

Championship fights mean everything's on the line. Mean more violence, more risk, more chances for the gentle hands that just touched my face to be permanently damaged.

More chances for me to lose him before I even have him.

Marcus looks back at me, and I see the conflict written across his face.

The choice between the career that defines him and whatever this thing is between us.

A choice I'm not sure either of us is ready to make.

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