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He rubs a hand over his face, which is covered in a half-shocked, half-ecstatic expression.

“You sure about this?” he asks, looking around the dusty walls and high ceilings.

“No,” I admit, lifting our connected hands and kissing both of his thumbs. “But I still want to do it.”

I knew I did. Even without a vision or a plan. Even if it’s reckless, this is my step in the next direction, and I don’t want to take it without him. Ford is showing up and I’m damn well going to let him. I’m done hiding. Done running. Done carrying heavy things.

Wrapping his arms around my waist, he kisses me, squeezing me tight and lifting me off the ground. “I love you, Scotty,” he says against my mouth.

I pull away from him slightly and slip a black rubber ring out of my back pocket and drop it into his palm. His lips tug to one side as he stares at it.

“Call it whatever you want,” I say.

He wraps his fingers around it, smiling wide. “What are you calling it?”

“A promise ring.”

“A promise ring?” he says coyly. “And what are you promising?”

“That I’ll fuck up any woman who looks at you.”

He barks out a laugh and slips it on his finger, knuckles moving along my jaw. “And if one day I want to buy you a ring?”

“I’ll do you one better, Golden Boy.” I bite my lip and yank up the sleeve of my sweater, revealing a freshly inked murmuration of starlings flying up the length of my arm, seven of them outlined in blue and standing out bolder than the rest.

He looks from the branded birds on my skin to my face, so much adoration in his eyes I can barely stand it. Then he kisses me like he's trying to drown in me—the familiarity of it something I’ll never quite get enough of.

“You know,” I murmur into his mouth, “every new business venture needs a good christening.”

He laughs against me, but he’s already moving us toward the door that connects to Fight Club. I fumble to get the key in the lock while refusing to pull my mouth from his.

We make it—barely. And in the middle of the boxing ring with the only man I’ve ever loved, that’s exactly what we do.

He looks at me, I look at him, and then I tell him I love him.

Epilogue

One Year Later

“Youthinkthey’lldoa cavity search?” I ask Wren as one guard pats me down while the other examines the contents of the manila envelope—the only item we were permitted to bring—in a bin off to the side. “I wore my best undies.”

Nobody laughs.

Losers.

The guard looking through the envelope gives it to Wren before guiding us into a large room with stainless-steel tables and chairs, gesturing to the table by the window. “That one,” he says with a gruff tone. “Break the rules and you’re out.”

At the table, a woman is already waiting.

Except, it’s not just a woman, it’s Riley. Next to me, Wren’s face goes ashen.

I grab her hand, stopping her in the middle of the room between tables of other prisoners visiting their loved ones. “You got this,”I tell her, rounding my spine so our eyes meet. “No matter what she says, that’s on her, not you. We don’t have to be our mothers.” I know that one from experience. “We can be better. We can be . . . someone else’s mother,” I joke.

She nods, almost smiling as her eyes ping around before taking the final steps across the room.

We sit across from Riley, the three of us looking at each other in silence. Even in an orange prison uniform, no makeup, and the dark roots of her hair grown out to the blonde tips, she’s pretty. Outside of a cage, she’d probably be beautiful.

“I’m surprised to see you,” she finally says to Wren. Looking at me: “Who’s this?”