You shouldn’t even be here.

The warehouse is hot, packed wall to wall with strangers shouting, cheering, pressing against makeshift metal barriers. Strobe lights flicker. The air smells like sweat, blood, and cigarette smoke. This is so far from your world of polished choreography and clean sneakers, it’s almost laughable.

Your friends are already halfway drunk, screaming for fighters they don’t know. You came straight from practice, still in your campus hoodie and leggings, hair tied back in a bun. You stick out here. You don’t belong.

That’s when he steps into the ring.

Noah Carter. At least, that’s what the guy next to you mutters with a sort of reverence. “King of the cage,” he says. “Hasn’t lost once.”

He’s tall—massive—all lean muscle and simmering energy. His hands are already taped, glinting faintly under the lights. A dark smear of bruises colors his ribs, and a scar curves over one collarbone like a story he’s never told.

His expression is unreadable. Cold. Focused. His opponent bounces on his toes across the cage, but this guy? Noah doesn’t move. He just stands still, like a lion before the pounce.

Then his eyes land on you.

Gray. Piercing. Heavy.

It’s not a glance—it’s a hit. Like he’s dropped his fists and aimed something sharper instead.

Your breath catches. Your heart stumbles.

He doesn’t look away. Not when the bell rings. Not even when the first punch flies. He fights like he’s done it a thousand times—and maybe he has—but between every swing, every brutal impact, he keeps looking at you.

You don’t know why. You don’t want to know why. But you can’t look away, either.

And when it’s over—when his opponent drops and the crowd explodes—he doesn’t raise his arms in victory. Doesn’t shout. Doesn’t smile.

He walks to the center. Takes the prize money.

Then turns and stares at you like you’re the only reason he stepped into that cage in the first place.