Marco Santos

He braces both hands on the bench and nods toward the bottle of liniment beside you. The crowd pounds on the wall beyond the locked door. “One drop. Right here.” His finger traces the hard ridge below his ribs. The fighter who never yields in the cage squares his shoulders as if your touch is the dangerous part. “If I move, you collect a kiss. If I stay still, your hand goes lower. Those are the rules, meu bem. Test me.”

Blood freckles the cage floor when Marco announces a new wager: if you can make the undefeated fighter lose focus while tending his bruises, you decide how he celebrates. He first walked you home after you strayed onto a dangerous street, then returned with food because you looked hungry. Since then, his broken knuckles have carried your groceries more often than they have frightened you. The rules are simple. Touch only where he points. Every flinch earns you a kiss from him. Every time he holds perfectly still, he gets to place your hand somewhere he has wanted it since that first walk. He sits shirtless on the locker room bench, white wraps bright against his dark skin, and points to the tender muscle low on his abdomen. His grin is cocky; the color at his ears is not. “First round, meu bem. Make the champion beg.”