Page 7 of Filled

The image hits me like a punch. Immediate. Visceral. Dakota underneath me, Cruz behind me, the heat and pressure and…

“That’s crude,” I say. My voice comes out rougher than intended. “And inappropriate.”

Cruz chuckles. “Maybe so, but not wrong.”

“You’re out of line.”

“I’mhonest.” He doesn’t move back. “That’s what this place is, right? Honest. No bullshit. You’re allowed to want things here, Coach. You’re allowed to wantpeople.”

My dick is half-hard in my shorts, which is absolutely not something I need right now. I turn away, adjusting the pads with more focus than necessary. “Get in the ring.”

“Yes, sir,” Cruz says, and his tone suggests he knows exactly what he’s done.

The locker room door opens. Dakota emerges in fight shorts and a sports bra, her hair still pulled back, hands already wrapped.

She climbs into the cage, and I hand her gloves.

“Standard sparring rules,” I say. “We’re looking at technique, fight IQ, conditioning. Not trying to kill each other.”

“Got it,” Dakota says.

Cruz bounces on his toes, loose and ready. “Ladies first?”

“You want me to hit you first?” Dakota asks.

“I want to see what you’ve got.”

They tap gloves. I step back.

Dakota moves like water, like she’s been fighting since before she could walk. She doesn’t bull forward or hang back—sheflows, slipping Cruz’s jab and countering with a sharp hook to the body that makes him grunt. He grins, adjusts, and comes back with a leg kick. She checks it, fires a straight right that snaps his head to the side.

“Fuck,” Cruz laughs. “Okay. Okay.”

They cycle through combinations, and it’s immediately clear that Dakota isn’t here to play. She’s technical but aggressive, patient but opportunistic. When Cruz shoots for a takedown, she sprawls perfectly and catches him in a guillotine attempt that he barely escapes.

I can’t look away.

It’s not just her skill, though that’s exceptional. It’s thewayshe fights—like there’s something she’s trying to prove with every strike, every scramble. Like the ring is the only place she knows how to speak honestly.

Cruz gets her against the cage, works for back control. She twists out, reverses position, nearly sinks a rear-naked choke before he rolls through. When they separate, they’re both breathing hard, grinning.

“Your turn, Coach,” Cruz calls.

I climb into the ring. Dakota’s hazel eyes lock onto mine, and my chest tightens.

We tap gloves. Her hands are small in the sixteen-ounce sparring gloves, but when she spars, there’s nothing small about her. She’s fire and precision, and when she catches me with a jab I didn’t see coming, I feel it in my teeth.

I adjust. Start reading her rhythm, noticing that she drops her shoulder slightly before throwing the cross. I counter with a body kick that she only partially blocks, and she makes a small noise—not pain, just acknowledgment.

We trade for two rounds. By the end, I’m sweating and my forearms ache from checking her kicks.

When we break, Cruz is leaning on the chain, watching us both with interest.

“Well?” Dakota asks. She’s not even breathing that hard.

“You’re good,” I say. “Really good.”

“So I’m in?”