My husband’s family knew me as Maya, the sweet, quiet florist who was twenty-seven, wore pretty pastel cotton sundresses,

Two weeks later, the summer heat had softened into a cool evening breeze.

Leo's arm was healing remarkably well, wrapped in a light bandage that allowed him full movement. We sat together on the wide wooden porch of the lake house—a beautiful two-story timber property nestled against the deep blue waters of Lake Granby.

The silence here was absolute, broken only by the gentle lap of water against the dock and the distant cry of a loon.

I sat on a wicker bench, carefully trimming the stems of fresh white roses I had brought from my shop, placing them into a glass vase on the table.

Leo walked out through the screen door, carrying two mugs of steaming tea. He wore a soft gray sweater, his glasses repaired, looking entirely at peace. He set one mug down beside me and sat on the bench, pulling me close to his side.

"No phone calls from your family today?" I asked, leaning my head against his uninjured shoulder.

"None," Leo said with a faint smile. "Dad called yesterday to confirm that Derek signed the agreement. Apparently, Derek sold his commercial smoker and hasn't had a single beer in two weeks. He's taking anger management classes."

"He's lucky he's taking classes instead of serving time in county jail," I noted softly.

"He knows it," Leo said. He quieted for a moment, looking out over the still lake as the sun began to set, casting long golden light across the water. "Maya?"

"Hmm?"

"Does a part of you miss it?" he asked gently. "The arena? The crowds? The fighting?"

I stopped trimming the rose stem, holding the smooth green stalk in my fingers. I thought back to the deafening roar of twelve thousand screaming fans, the bright halogen lights blinding my eyes, the adrenaline pumping like liquid fire through my veins as I locked in a final submission.

Then I looked at the quiet lake, at the vase of fresh flowers, and at the man beside me who loved me for my kindness, not my fists.