Page 25 of The Fight

I open my mouth to protest, but then I remember the look on his face in the ring. The last thing I want to do is make him angrier.

He doesn’t say anything else. He just leads me over to his Jeep, opens the passenger door, and motions for me to get inside. I climb in, and as soon as I’m seated, he slams the door shut, making me flinch. As he rounds the front of the Jeep, I try to keep my breathing steady. When he finally slides into the driver’s seat and starts the engine, the silence between us is thick.

The drive home is short, but the quiet makes it feel agonizingly long. I try to distract myself by looking out the window, watching the palm trees and the blur of the streetlights, but the pain in my cheek makes it hard to concentrate. Every bump in the road sends a jolt of pain through my head, and I have to bite my lip to keep from groaning.

Shay doesn’t say a word the entire drive. He just keeps his eyes fixed straight ahead with his jaw clenched tightly. I steal a glance at him, but his face is an unreadable mask. I wonder what he’s thinking, if he’s angry at me or at himself or at the whole fucking world. But I’m too hurt and too tired to ask.

Finally, we pull up to the house. Shay cuts the engine after he parks and is out of the Jeep in an instant. He moves around to my side before I even have a chance to unbuckle my seat belt. I push the door open, but he’s already there, catching me as I stumble out.

“Easy,” he coos, steading me with a hand on my lower back as he leads me toward the house.

We move quietly through the darkened foyer, and I let Shay lead me toward the staircase. He keeps his hand on me as we go up, not letting me go until we reach the landing. I step toward my door, but his hand is back, this time on my waist, leading me to his instead.

The door is ajar, and he pushes it further open with his shoulder, guiding me inside. “Sit,” he orders, just like before, pointing to the edge of his bed.

I obey his command and let my body sag into the mattress. His eyes never leave mine as he unravels the tape from his bloody hands and throws it to the floor. It’s a bit odd seeing him so careless when I know his room doesn’t even have a speck of dust in sight.

Finally breaking his stare from mine, he leaves the room. I can hear water running down the hall, but it stops just as quicklyas it started. A few seconds later, Shay is back, damp washcloth in hand, pushing the door closed behind him.

He kneels in front of me and grips my chin between his pointer finger and thumb. “Hold still.”

He starts dabbing the cut on my lip, pressing the cool cloth against my skin with a touch that is surprisingly delicate. I wince at the sting, but he doesn’t pull back. Instead, he moves with careful precision, dabbing the blood and cleaning the wound with a focus I’ve only seen him carry in the ring.

His thumb brushes lightly against my bottom lip, and I inhale sharply at the sensation—a mix of pain and want. His hands are a little calloused from all the hours spent training and fighting, yet his touch is featherlight, as if he’s afraid to cause me more pain. I’m so used to his harsh words, his cold glares, and even the abrasiveness of his kiss. But this… This is new.

My heart starts to pound in my chest, and I’m not sure if it’s from the pain or the way he’s looking at me. I feel exposed under his stare, vulnerable in a way that makes me uncomfortable, yet I can’t look away.

“Why are you doing this?” I ask softly.

Shay doesn’t look up from where he continues to dab my lip. “Because you need it,” he says simply, as if that explains everything, but it doesn’t.

His hand tilts my chin up slightly, and his thumb brushes my jawline. I’m hyperaware of every point of contact, the heat from his skin seeping into mine, the roughness of his fingers a stark contrast to the gentleness of his actions.

My heart beats faster, and I catch myself unable to stop staring at him. I’ve never seen him like this—so focused and so soft. There’s a tenderness in his touch that’s almost disarming. A side of him I didn’t know existed. I catch myself holding my breath and my thoughts spiraling in a direction I never expected. Hating him was easy—fun. Kissing him and wanting to scrape upagainst him like a cat in heat, even better. But this? I don’t know how I’m supposed to deal with this—the sweet, tender, gentle Shay.

His thumb grazes my lip again, and I shiver, a wave of warmth flooding through me despite the coolness of the cloth.

“Does it hurt?”

“A little,” I admit, my voice coming out more breathless than I intended. “But it’s okay.”

He pauses for a moment, his gaze finally meeting mine again, and there’s something in his eyes that makes my stomach flip—something like concern.

He nods, then drops the washcloth on the nightstand beside us. “Well, that should help for now.”

I nod, still trying to process the strange, softer version of Shay in front of me.

He stands and crosses the room to his dresser. Tugging open a drawer, he pulls out a plain black T-shirt, then turns back to me.

“Can I help you, or would you prefer I leave?”

I can’t formulate words to answer him. Instead, I just lift the gym tank over my head and wait for him to come back. When he’s back in front of me, he leans down, shimmying the shirt over my head, then pulls it down over my stomach, letting his fingers brush against my ribs as he does. The fabric is soft and well-worn. It smells like him too, a mix of sandalwood and something smokey.

“Aren’t you going to change too?” It’s a stupid question, but I need to fill the void with something.

He nods. “I’m going to go call Austin and make sure everything is good at the gym first. But don’t worry. You can sleep here. You need to rest.”

I nod, then glance at his pillows. They seem so welcoming and soft.

---