Page 149 of Filled

We make breakfast in my small kitchen, and it’s so freaking natural. She scrambles eggs while I handle the coffee, and we move around each other without collisions, without needing to speak, her hip bumping mine when she reaches past me for the salt. This. This is what I want when I let myself want long-term. Not just the fire. The morning after the fire, when the coals are still warm and somebody’s stealing bacon off your plate.

“I have to go,” she says around nine thirty, pulling on her shoes by the door. “Eli’s got me on conditioning at ten.”

“Tell him you were up all night with a large emotional man.”

“That’ll go over great at the gym.” She stops at the door, keys in hand, and looks back at me. “Cruz. Thank you. For just... sitting in it with me.”

“Anytime, sweetheart. I mean that. Middle of the night, whenever. You wake up thinking he’s in the room, you call me. I’ll stay on the phone until you know he’s not.”

Her eyes shine, and she nods once. Then she’s gone down the stairs, and I watch from my window as her car pulls away.

There’s a new feeling in my chest this morning that I don’t have a name for yet, but I hope it stays. Bigger than wanting her. Bigger than the ache I get watching any of the four of them across a room. It’s the same thing that was in Victor’s eyes at thatWaffle House at four in the morning, I think. The decision, made whole and final, to be the one who shows up.

I’m going to be the person who stays. For her. For Dante and Brady and Eli. Every day, even the ugly ones. Especially the ugly ones.

Family isn’t just blood. It’s who shows up. Who holds your broken pieces without trying to grind them smooth. Who sees you at three in the morning in a holding cell, or crying over pad thai about a monster in Florida, and doesn’t look away.

I have that now. We all have that now.

And I’ll burn the whole world down before I let anything take it from us.

33

ELI

Dakota’s jab cracks against the training mitt, and I call for the cross before her arm finishes retracting.

“Again. Faster.”

She resets, throws the combination, and the impact stings through my palms. Six months of coaching at Oath and I still get a jolt watching her work.

“Coach.” Marco stands at my elbow. I didn’t hear him approach, which means my attention was exactly where it shouldn’t have been. “Victor wants to see you in the office.”

“We’re mid-round.”

“Now, hermano.” His face gives me nothing. Marco’s face always gives you the truth of a situation, and right now it’s a locked door.

Dakota lowers her hands. Sweat tracks down her temple, and her eyes flick between us.

“Finish the round with Lisa,” I tell her. “Footwork drills. I’ll check your times after.”

I strip off the mitts and hand them to Marco, and walk across the floor. Fight cards. Scheduling. Maybe the sponsor meeting got moved up. Maybe Henderson’s camp filed a complaint about Brady’s post-fight interview.

I build a list of harmless explanations and believe none of them, because Marco delivers routine messages with a grin and a slap on the shoulder, and he just delivered this one like a process server.

Victor’s office has glass walls. Whatever happens in there, the whole gym gets the silent film version. I step inside. Victor sits behind his desk, forearms resting on a closed laptop, and he nods toward the door.

“Shut it.”

The latch clicks. I take the chair across from him without being asked, because standing would look like I expect a fight. “What’s up?”

Victor studies me. “How long you been here now, Eli? Six months?”

I nod. “About that.”

“Best hire I’ve made in years. Fighters trust you. Numbers are up across the board. Brady’s choke Saturday, that was your game plan executed clean,” he praises.

“He did the work.”