Page 74 of Celestial Combat

This wasn’t a hotel.

It wasn’t some random safe house.

The loft was spacious, industrial – exposed red brick walls, steel beams running across the ceiling. But despite the sharpness of its structure, there was something undeniably warm about it. The lighting was dim, casting agolden glow over the space, and in the background, a record hummed softly, the sound barely audible over the faint city noise drifting through the massive windows that continued to the ceiling, covering two stories.

Weights sat neatly in one corner, a punching bag hanging from the ceiling nearby. Shelves lined the walls, filled with books that looked well-worn, and scattered among them were old vinyls, their spines marked with familiar names.

But what stood out the most was the careful balance of styles. The modern, industrial edges softened by a clear, intentional Japanese influence – wooden accents, a low table near the windows, the simplicity of the furniture itself.

I felt a strange flutter in my stomach.

This was Zane’s space.

And I was standing in the middle of it.

He was already moving, walking toward a cabinet near the kitchen, rummaging through something. But I was still stuck in place, my fingers curling slightly at my sides.

My voice came out quieter than I meant it to. “You brought me to your home.”

“It’s safe here.”

That was all he said. As if it was just a practical decision. As if it didn’t mean anything at all.

But for some reason, it felt like it did.

“Come on,” Zane said, his voice steady, controlled. “Follow me.”

I hesitated for just a second before stepping after him, my bare feet almost silent against the polished hardwood as we moved up the stairs.

The loft opened into a grand, open-floor bedroom, even more expansive than I’d expected. The aesthetic from downstairs continued here, but somehow felt even moreintimate. The bed was massive, covered in clean, white sheets that looked impossibly soft, the lighting low and warm, throwing flickering shadows against the walls. View of the floor-to-ceiling windows across the railing, giving a breathtaking view of the Brooklyn skyline.

But Zane didn’t stop. He kept walking toward a door on the far side of the room, pushing it open.

The bathroom was just as impressive as the rest of the place – black marble floors, deep gray walls, and a massive freestanding tub set against a wall of frosted glass. Luxurious minimalism, every inch intentional.

Zane turned on the faucet, the rush of water breaking the thick silence between us. Steam curled up as the tub filled, fogging the mirror above the double sink. I watched him, the way his strong hands adjusted the temperature, the quiet efficiency in his movements.

His voice was low and smooth when he spoke again. “I don’t have anything for your hair.”

I blinked, momentarily thrown off.

He glanced at me. “Shampoo or conditioner for curly hair.”

A small, almost amused breath left me. “It’s fine,” I said. “I’ll be okay for one night.”

For the first time, I realized just how wild my hair must look. I had always kept it in braids for training and fights – practical. That was how Zane had always seen me.

I’d just gotten my braids removed after my last night at Python’s Fight Club. My hair had been in a ponytail earlier, before all hell broke loose. Now my curls were everywhere, tumbling down my back, some strands sticking to my skin from the sweat and blood.

Zane didn’t say anything, but his gaze flicked over me, lingering a fraction of a second longer than it needed to.

He turned, grabbing a stack of towels from a shelf and placing them on the counter. “I’ll get you some clothes.”

There was a moment – just a moment – where neither of us moved.

The steam from the filling tub wrapped around us, softening the sharp edges of the room. His eyes stayed on mine, dark and consuming.

I swallowed, nodding.

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