The weeks blurred together.
Fights.
Cameras.
Flashing lights.
Sweat.
Zane barely had time to breathe — yet somehow, he felt lighter than he had in months.
Commercial shoots filled his mornings. Training consumed his afternoons. Matches dominated his evenings. The Camille Group smartwatch campaign had rolled out beautifully — sleek visuals of him sprinting, shadowboxing, sweat glistening under studio lights while the device tracked his pulse.
The narrative was clear.
Performance. Discipline. Focus.
No scandals.
No rumors.
No personal life.
He stuck to it.
Ignored paparazzi.
Walked past microphones.
Didn't answer questions unless they were strictly about MMA.
And whenever the pressure felt too heavy?
He opened his phone.
Adrien.
They texted constantly now.
Morning check-ins. Midday updates. Late-night conversations that stretched past midnight.
Zane didn't even realize how much he smiled until Marcus elbowed him one afternoon in the locker room.
"You look stupid," Marcus said bluntly.
Zane didn't look up from his screen. "What?"
"Grinning at your phone like that. You in love or something?"
Zane froze for half a second — then scoffed.
"Shut up."
But he didn't deny it.
Across the city, Adrien wasn't any better.
In the university cafeteria, his friends had begun noticing the shift.
It was subtle.
The way his shoulders relaxed when his phone buzzed.
The faint curve at the corner of his mouth when reading a message.
The way he angled his body slightly away from the group when typing, as if protecting something fragile.
One of his friends leaned over during lunch and smirked.
"Who is it?"
Adrien didn't look up. "No one."
"That 'no one' makes you look alive."
Adrien rolled his eyes but didn't respond.
Because it was true.
Tonight was important.
Zane's opponent was strong. Not undefeated — but dangerous. Technical. Aggressive. Known for endurance.
They had faced each other once before.
Zane had won.
Barely.
Now, weeks later, it was time again.
The gym was tense all day.
Zane trained hard — maybe too hard.
Between stretches and drills, his physical therapist worked on his shoulders and thighs, loosening muscle tension before the match.
"You're stiff," she noted, pressing into his right shoulder.
"I'm fine," he muttered.
His phone buzzed on the bench beside him.
He glanced at it.
Adrien.
Eat something before you fight.
Zane smiled immediately.
"I am," he typed back quickly. "Therapist says I'm tense."
You are.
He huffed softly at the screen.
"What's funny?" his therapist asked.
"Nothing."
But he kept checking his phone.
Again.
And again.
Coach Ramirez noticed.
"Calloway."
Zane looked up.
"Phone away. You fight in three hours."
He nodded reluctantly and slid it into his bag.
His heart felt unsettled.
Not anxious exactly.
Just… off.
At 6:40 p.m., Adrien was already at home.
Laptop open.
Match live-streamed in high definition.
He sat cross-legged on his bed, hands clasped loosely in his lap.
He didn't know why his chest felt tight.
Just a bad feeling.
Zane's entrance music blasted through the speakers.
The arena roared.
Zane stepped into the cage.
Something felt wrong immediately.
Adrien couldn't explain it.
Zane's shoulders were tense.
His movements slightly stiff.
He didn't bounce lightly on his feet like usual.
The referee signaled.
The match began.
The first exchange was clean.
Technical.
Zane landed a decent strike.
But his footwork seemed slower.
Half a beat behind.
The opponent pressed forward harder than last time.
Zane absorbed two heavy blows in quick succession.
Adrien's fingers tightened.
"Come on," he whispered under his breath.
Zane countered.
Tried to pivot.
But something wasn't right.
His breathing looked strained.
Mid-second round, he hesitated.
Just for a second.
And that second cost him.
A solid hit to the ribs.
Another to the shoulder.
He staggered slightly.
Adrien's stomach dropped.
Zane kept pushing.
Kept swinging.
But his movements were rigid now.
Unnatural.
Then suddenly—
He stumbled backward.
Collapsed to one knee.
The arena gasped.
Adrien's heart slammed painfully in his chest.
Zane tried to stand — but he was breathing hard.
Too hard.
The referee stepped in.
Medical staff rushed forward.
The match was paused.
Moments later, it was declared a tie due to medical concern.
A tie.
Adrien stared at the screen.
Zane was upright again now, breathing steadier, but being escorted to the back.
Adrien exhaled slowly.
He hadn't realized he was holding his breath.
He closed the laptop.
And fell backward onto the bed.
A tie?
It felt worse than losing.
Backstage, Zane sat on a bench while his therapist checked his vitals.
"You hyperventilated," she said firmly.
"I couldn't breathe," he muttered. "The air felt… heavy."
Coach Ramirez crossed his arms.
"You were distracted all week."
Zane frowned.
"That's not—"
"You think I don't see you glued to that phone?" Coach snapped. "You weren't focused."
Zane swallowed.
He hated that part.
Because it wasn't entirely wrong.
He rubbed his face.
"I'll fix it."
"You better."
When he got home, his mom was waiting.
The moment he stepped through the door, she pulled him into a tight hug.
"You scared me," she whispered.
"I'm fine," he reassured her.
She had cooked his favorite dishes.
Told him to eat as much as he wanted.
He did.
Silently.
After showering, he collapsed onto his bed and grabbed his phone.
Adrien had already texted.
You okay?
Zane smiled faintly.
Yeah. Couldn't breathe properly on the ring.
A pause.
Then—
I noticed.
Zane's heart skipped.
You did?
Your face changed when you stepped in.
He stared at the screen.
Adrien noticed that?
They texted for a while.
Zane admitted he felt off.
That Coach scolded him.
That he was frustrated.
After a few minutes, he typed without thinking.
I'm kinda sad.
A pause.
Why?
Coach said it was partially my fault. For being on my phone too much.
Silence.
Then—
Do you need comfort?
Zane huffed softly.
Yeah.
Another pause.
Longer this time.
Then—
Come over.
Zane blinked.
Another message followed.
An address.
He shot upright so fast the room spun.
His heart began pounding violently.
"Wait— what?"
He reread it three times.
Penthouse.
Adrien's penthouse.
Right now?
His hands trembled.
He changed quickly — low-rise sweatpants, hoodie thrown over his bare chest.
Ran fingers through his hair.
Grabbed his keys.
His pulse was so loud he could hear it in his ears.
He drove faster than he should have.
Parked.
Entered the building.
Elevator ride felt eternal.
When he reached the floor, he stood outside the door for several seconds.
Exhaled.
Knocked.
On the other side, Adrien froze at the sound.
It was real now.
He stood abruptly, checking himself in the mirror.
Plain white shirt.
Loose shorts.
Bare legs.
He swallowed.
Walked to the door.
Opened it.
Zane stood there.
Slightly flushed.
Breathing unevenly.
Hoodie slightly unzipped.
Low sweatpants hanging dangerously low on his hips.
He grinned awkwardly and waved.
"Hey."
Adrien stepped aside.
"Come in."
Zane entered, eyes immediately scanning the spacious interior.
"Wow. You've got a huge house."
Adrien closed the door. "It was a gift from my aunt."
"Cool."
But Zane wasn't really looking at the walls.
His gaze drifted.
Adrien's legs.
Long.
Lean.
Defined in a subtle way.
Model proportions.
Zane swallowed.
Adrien noticed.
Silence stretched.
Their eyes met.
Held.
Something thick settled between them.
Adrien broke it first.
"I was eating," he said lightly. "Korean food."
He gestured toward the table.
Zane nodded quickly. "Smells good."
They moved to the couch.
Sat side by side — not too close.
Not too far.
Adrien suggested a movie.
"Horror?" he offered.
"Sure."
The lights dimmed slightly.
The movie began.
But Zane wasn't watching it.
Not really.
His eyes kept drifting.
To Adrien's thighs.
The subtle flex when he shifted position.
The way his shirt hung loosely over his slender frame.
Adrien could feel it.
The weight of Zane's gaze.
He didn't look at him directly.
But he knew.
The air between them felt charged.
Heavy.
Zane swallowed again.
Focused on the screen.
Failed.
Adrien shifted slightly, crossing one leg over the other.
Zane's breath hitched quietly.
The horror movie played on.
But the real tension wasn't on the screen.
It was on the couch.
And neither of them said a word about it.