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Dakota turns toward him as he passes, mouth open, but he doesn’t look at her.

I catch the expression on her face when his back’s turned. There’s a flicker there. Hurt, and as quickly as it surfaced, it’s tucked away

“Coach,” she says.

He keeps walking.

We watch him go through the double doors. Watch them swing. Watch them still.

Cruz lets out a low whistle. “Well.”

“Don’t.” Brady’s voice cracks on the word. “Don’t you fuckingwellright now.”

“What? I’m just?—”

I glare at him. “You knew he was raw. You wound him up on purpose.”

Cruz wipes blood off his lip with the back of his wrist. Considers it. Shrugs. “He needed to bleed it out somewhere. Better me than her.”

It lands like a slap because he’s not wrong, but I don’t think Coach would take it out on Dakota.

Dakota’s still hanging onto the cage from outside, looking at the door like she might follow him—she doesn’t, allowing her hands to drop as she turns into the cage and pulls open the gate, stepping inside.

“Right,” she says. Voice steady, even if her face isn’t. “What were we supposed to be doing?”

Brady blinks. “Coach had a circuit. Pads, takedowns, three live.”

“Okay.”

“We can call it. Reschedule,” I suggest.

“No.” She rolls her shoulders. The motion is small but it does something to the air. Her T-shirt rides up an inch and there’s a strip of skin above her shorts and I see Brady clock it and look away too fast. “I’m here. You’re here. Cruz, run it.”

Cruz drops the rest of the grin. Goes neutral. Coach for the day. “Pads first. Five minutes each. Brady, you hold for Dakota. Dante, hold for me. We’ll switch.”

Brady picks up the pads like they personally insulted his mother.

I take mine and stand opposite Cruz.

His knuckles touch the center of my pad as a check-in, habit by now, and his eyes find mine.

You okay?he’s asking, without saying it.

Are we okay?

I just lift the pad.

He starts working.

Five minutes is a long time when you’re standing two feet from someone who got their mouth on a woman you’ve been circling and who you’ve also been fucking and who you can’t decide if you want to hit or kiss. Cruz throws clean. Hard. The pop of leather echoes off the high ceiling and after a minute we both stop performing for each other and settle into the rhythm of it.

Across the mat, Brady’s calling Dakota’s combinations.One, two, three. One, two, low kick.She moves like she was born knowing how to do this dance. Hair coming loose from her braid. Sweat at her collarbones. Brady’s voice gets thicker every round. He’s not even hiding it.

When we switch, I take the pads off and hand them to Brady and step over to her side without asking.

“Up,” I say.

She lifts her hands.