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The crowd chuckles. I keep my expression neutral.

I turn my head just enough to scan the length of the table. Zane shifts his weight in his chair. Our eyes meet.

The noise in the ballroom instantly fades into a dull roar. The camera flashes blur into a solid wall of white light.

I read the absolute exhaustion carved into the lines around his mouth. The fear tightening the corners of his eyes. He is suffocating under the weight of his father’s ghost and Dan’s relentless demands.

I see you, I project the thought across the distance. I’m right here. Four more days.

Zane swallows hard. The sharp line of his throat bobs above the collar of his expensive dress shirt. Some of the tension bleeds out of his shoulders. He receives the message. He holds onto it like a lifeline in open water.

He looks away, turning his attention back to the firing line of reporters. His expression goes blank again.

“Fighters, front and center.”

We stand. My muscles ache from the weight cut, the dehydration making my joints feel like grinding gears. I step out from behind the table. Zane mirrors my movement.

We meet on the tape line. The reporters surge forward, shoving their lenses into our space.

“Toe to toe, gentlemen,” the promoter barks.

I step in. The heat radiating off Zane’s body hits me in a physical wave. He smells like cedar and expensive hotel soap. I stare up into his face. I have to tilt my chin an inch to hold his gaze.

His pupils are blown wide, swallowing the gold irises. His chest rises and falls in shallow, rapid bursts.

“Give us some heat!” a photographer shouts from the pit.

Zane leans in. The tip of his nose hovers a breath away from mine.

“They want a show,” Zane murmurs, the sound barely carrying over the roar of the crowd.

“So give them one.” I keep my lips barely moving.

Zane flexes his jaw. He raises his fist, holding it between our faces in a classic fighting pose. His taped knuckles graze the underside of my chin. A jolt of electricity spikes straight down my neck and settles low in my gut.

He wants to touch me. The desperate hunger bleeds through the cracks in his armor. He uses the pose as an excuse to make physical contact.

I don’t back down. I press my chin against the rough athletic tape wrapping his hand. I hold his stare, letting all the unspoken promises burn in the narrow space separating our bodies.

Four days. Just survive four more days.

“Break it up, let’s get individual shots.”

The handlers separate us. I miss him before he’s out of reach. I turn my back and flex for the cameras, plastering on the confident smirk they expect. Behind me, I hear the heavy thud of Zane’s footsteps retreating to the green room.

Hours later, the media circus ends. The handlers finally release us to our respective corners of the city.

The rented studio is dark when I get back. I don’t bother turning on the overhead lights. The orange glow of the streetlamp filtering through the blinds provides enough illumination to navigate the cramped space.

I strip off the stiff promotional polo shirt and toss it onto the floor. I drag a heavy hand over my face, feeling the rough scrape of my own stubble.

My burner phone sits silent on the kitchenette counter. No messages.

I walk into the tiny bathroom and turn on the shower. The plumbing groans, spitting out lukewarm water. I stand under the weak spray for twenty minutes, letting the grit of the day wash down the drain. I scrub the dried sweat from my neck, but I can’t scrub away the image of Zane’s hollow eyes.

The man is breaking in half.

I turn off the water. I wrap a towel around my waist and step back into the main room.