Shade told herself she wouldn't go again.
Because Blaze was officially in Echora now. There was no reason to stalk her training like a ghost. No reason to lurk behind tinted glass like some pathetic spectator.
Shade wasn't pathetic.
Shade was strategic.
She had schedules to manage. Onboarding to support. Debut prep. Vocal layering. Camera rehearsals. Nova's endless expectations.
There was work to do.
And still—three nights later—Shade stood across the street from Blaze's gym with her hands in her pockets and her hood up, staring at the chain-link fence like it was a line she wasn't supposed to cross.
The neon sign above the door flickered weakly in the night.
Inside, she could already hear it: the faint muffled rhythm of gloves hitting pads. The sound traveled through the walls like a heartbeat.
Shade's chest tightened.
Not from fear.
From familiarity.
The gym was quiet at this hour. Late enough that most people had gone home. Early enough that the world hadn't fully fallen asleep. The time between. The space where secrets lived comfortably.
Shade walked in like she belonged there—like she wasn't trespassing into someone else's private world.
The front desk attendant barely glanced up.
Shade slipped past, shoulders tight, footsteps silent.
She knew the layout.
She hated that she knew it.
The hallway toward the coach room was dim, lit only by buzzing fluorescents. The air smelled like sweat, disinfectant, and rubber mats—honest smells. Real ones.
Unlike the polished scent of Echora's practice space.
Shade's fingers curled slightly as she approached the door.
The coach room.
Her old hiding place.
The tinted glass.
Her safest way to watch without being seen.
Shade stopped in front of it, breathing slow.
Then she reached for the handle.
It didn't budge.
Shade frowned and tried again.
Locked.
Her pulse ticked up.
That wasn't normal.
Shade leaned closer, peering through the glass.
The room was empty inside—dark, unused. A chair pushed back like someone had left in a hurry.
Shade's stomach twisted.
She turned her head toward the ring.
The main floor was brighter. Clearer.
And there—inside the ropes—Blaze was moving.
Sparring.
Not with a group, not with a crowd.
Just one opponent.
A tall man with broad shoulders who looked used to winning.
Blaze didn't look impressed.
She shifted on her feet like she was dancing.
One step. One pivot. Eyes calm. Breath controlled.
Shade stood at the edge of the floor, watching—her body snapping into stillness without permission.
A jab came toward Blaze's face.
Blaze slipped under it like smoke.
Then—clean impact.
Blaze struck hard enough that her opponent stumbled back, surprise flashing across his face.
Shade's chest went loud.
It wasn't the violence that held her.
It was the control.
The way Blaze didn't look angry. Didn't look hungry. Didn't look cruel.
Blaze knocked him down like it was choreography.
Like she was proving something without needing to say a word.
Shade's throat tightened.
A familiar relief washed through her—quiet, heavy, addictive.
This is justice, Shade's brain whispered automatically.
This is healing.
This is—
Blaze's opponent stepped out of the ring, breathing hard, wiping sweat off his face. The coach spoke to him quietly, pointing at something.
Blaze stayed in the ring.
Alone.
For a moment, her eyes scanned the room like she was searching for something.
Shade's stomach dropped.
Then Blaze's gaze landed directly on her.
Shade froze.
Not half a second.
Not a beat.
Full stillness.
Like her body had been struck.
Blaze held her gaze—steady, unblinking.
Then Blaze smiled.
Not a big smile.
Not sweet.
A slow curve of the mouth that said one thing clearly:
Caught.
Shade's heart slammed.
She should've left. She should've turned around and walked out like she'd never been there.
But Blaze lifted a finger—small, casual—and curled it in a "come here" motion.
Shade's skin buzzed like electricity.
Her feet didn't move.
Blaze leaned against the ropes like she had all the time in the world. Then she spoke, voice carrying across the space with calm confidence.
"You can stop hiding, you know."
Shade's eyes narrowed immediately. Defensive. Sharp.
"I'm not hiding," Shade called back.
Blaze tilted her head slightly, amused. "Right."
Shade's jaw clenched.
Blaze pushed off the ropes and walked toward her across the mat with the ease of someone who never questioned their own place in the world. The lights caught in her blonde hair, making her look unreal.
She stopped in front of Shade, close enough to make Shade painfully aware of her own breathing.
Blaze's voice lowered—only for Shade now.
"You came back," Blaze said.
Shade's tone turned cold. "It's scouting."
Blaze's eyes flicked down—just once—to Shade's lips.
Then back up.
Blaze smiled again, softer this time. Dangerous-soft.
"Is it?" Blaze murmured.
Shade felt her control slip.
Not visibly.
Internally.
Her throat tightened. She couldn't let Blaze have this.
"Why is the coach room locked?" Shade asked, trying to regain ground.
Blaze's smile widened.
"I locked it," Blaze said.
Shade went still.
"You—" Shade started, then stopped.
Blaze watched her like she loved watching her.
"You always sit in there," Blaze said calmly. "Watching me like you think I don't know."
Shade's face stayed blank.
But her cheeks heated.
Blaze leaned slightly closer, voice dropping into something almost whispered.
"I wanted you out here," Blaze said.
Shade's stomach flipped.
"Why," Shade said sharply, "would you want that."
Blaze's eyes softened—just for a second.
Then the teasing returned, like armor.
"So you'd have to look at me directly," Blaze said.
Shade's fingers curled inside her pockets so tightly her nails bit into her palms.
"You're arrogant," Shade breathed.
Blaze hummed. "You're stubborn."
Shade stared at her.
Blaze stared back—unshaken.
Then Blaze's opponent and coach returned to the ring. The coach spoke briefly to Blaze, gesturing toward the corner, then stepped away.
Blaze didn't move.
She stayed in front of Shade.
Blaze glanced over her shoulder once, then back to Shade like nothing mattered except this moment.
"Wait here," Blaze said.
Shade's eyes narrowed. "I'm not waiting for—"
Blaze's gaze pinned her.
Not aggressive.
Not forceful.
Just… undeniable.
Shade's words died.
Blaze stepped away and climbed back into the ring with smooth grace, taking her stance as if she hadn't just dismantled Shade's entire defense system with two sentences.
The spar began again.
Shade didn't leave.
She didn't know why she didn't leave.
She stood there at the edge of the mat like she was rooted to the floor, watching Blaze move with lethal elegance.
And the whole time—Blaze knew she was watching.
Blaze didn't glance at her much.
She didn't need to.
The awareness was in the air.
Every pivot felt like a message.
Every punch felt like a declaration.
Shade's chest went tight with something she couldn't name without losing.
Then the coach called time.
The opponent stepped back.
Blaze pulled off her gloves slowly, breathing steady, sweat glistening under the lights. She looked… radiant.
She stepped down from the ring and walked straight toward Shade again.
Closer.
Closer.
Until Shade had nowhere to put her eyes safely anymore.
Blaze stopped right in front of her, breath warm in the space between them.
Shade tried to speak first.
Tried to reclaim control.
"Are you done playing games?" Shade asked.
Blaze smiled.
"I'm not playing," Blaze said softly.
Shade's heart slammed.
Blaze's voice lowered further.
"I just wanted to see if you'd come," Blaze murmured.
Shade's jaw tightened. "And?"
Blaze's gaze dropped to Shade's mouth again—slow, deliberate.
Then Blaze lifted her eyes.
"And you did," Blaze whispered.
Shade's breath caught.
Her brain screamed run.
Her body didn't move.
Blaze's smile turned almost gentle.
"You don't have to hide anymore," Blaze said. "Not here."
Shade swallowed hard. Her voice came out quiet, furious, raw.
"I don't want anything."
Blaze didn't flinch.
Blaze leaned in slightly, close enough that Shade felt her warmth like a threat.
"Keep telling yourself that," Blaze whispered.
Shade's entire body went still.
Because the line wasn't mocking.
It wasn't cruel.
It was intimate.
Like Blaze was whispering the truth Shade was too terrified to say out loud.
Shade's chest tightened so hard it hurt.
She stared at Blaze—eyes sharp, lips parted, anger and desire twisting together like wires sparking in her veins.
Blaze held her gaze, calm as ever.
Waiting.
Patient.
Like she had all the time in the world.
And Shade—who didn't do crushes—realized with terrifying certainty:
Blaze wasn't just a boxer.
Blaze was a trap.
And Shade had walked into it willingly.