Chapter 5
EYES UP (LEO)
The room goes dead quiet. Jessica stands across the room, cool and collected, sorting the wreckage into a narrative.
Everything in me locks onto Liz.
“Wait.” Eden stares at her. “You’re not suggesting—”
“I am.” Jessica doesn’t flinch. “We tell the media that Liz is Leo’s girlfriend.” Her tone is detached and matter-of-fact. “Tonight wasn’t a random bar fight. It was a man defending his girlfriend from a dangerous ex. That’s the story.”
My gaze cuts to Liz.
She’s braced by the window, jaw dropped, arms crossed tight over her chest. That silk dress is still mid-thigh, and I can feel the memory of her skin under my hands from an hour ago.
We were seconds from a kiss that would’ve ended the way these nights always do—in my bed, her body wrapped around me, gone by morning.
That’s the pattern. My pattern.
Women don’t balk. They don’t hesitate. They know the script, and they’re eager to follow it. They certainly don’t watch me the way she’s watching me now—guarded, reluctant, assessing risk.
Jessica continues, steady as a metronome. “We’re selling a serious, committed relationship.”
Liz’s expression says Jessica has just announced a prison sentence. Eden doesn’t move. Nate lets out a low whistle. Finn mutters something under his breath.
But I’m not watching them.
I’m watching her.
She edges back a step, shoulders tight enough to cut glass. The woman who moved against me on that dance floor—open, warm, attuned to every shift of my body—has vanished. In her place is someone bracing for impact, ready to run through a wall if she has to.
The rejection lands somewhere stupidly personal. I tell myself it isn’t real, that it’s part of the setup, and to get over it.
That goes nowhere.
Jessica doesn’t slow down. “If you’re living together, no one can frame you as an unhinged fighter gone rogue. It protects both of you—her from Drake, you from career damage.”
She’s right. If the narrative doesn’t flip, my entire season collapses. The commission opens an inquiry. Sponsors pause. The title defense gets pushed or pulled entirely.
I’m six or eight weeks out from camp. Everything is timed to the ounce—weight, recovery, visibility. One wrong move and the belt becomes leverage instead of protection.
But Liz—she’s still shaking her head.
“No way,” she snaps. “This is insane.”
Women don’t turn me down.
Ever.
They line up. They chase. They make it uncomplicated.
But not Liz.
Not the woman who got under my skin before I even touched her.
Most men would take the hint. I don’t know how.
She wanted me tonight. I read those signs better than anyone, and her sudden pivot sends a jolt through me I’m not prepared for.
Jessica is undeterred. “This is the only narrative that protects both of you.”
Liz laughs under her breath, sharp and incredulous. “We went from girlfriend to living together in less than thirty seconds. Absolutely not.”
Eden steps in, palms lifted. “Liz, be reasonable—Jessica’s right.”
“How long?” I keep my voice even.
The rest is none of anyone’s business. Because underneath the ego scrape and the career calculations, something else is already awake. Something primitive. Protective. Already rooted in my bones.
If Drake shows up again, I’ll put him on the ground without hesitation. I’ll do the same to anyone who comes near Liz with that intent.
It’s not who I am. It’s not what I do.
Yet here it is—hardwired, uninvited, alive.
Liz drops onto the sofa, palms to her face. “I’m not doing this.”
“How long?” I repeat, keeping my focus on Jessica.
“Six weeks. Long enough for the story to cool and for people to believe you’re a real couple.” She runs down the list briskly. “Public dates. Some handholding. A few coordinated photos. We frame this as a relationship that’s been building quietly for months. Drake forced it into the spotlight.”
“Six weeks,” I echo.
Six weeks with her in my home.
Which means six weeks of distance. Of restraint. Of not touching her.
I could call it insane. Or I could admit I’m already too far in.
“Give or take,” Jessica says. “By then the clip is stale. You become boring. Sponsors settle. The commission backs off. After that, you both walk away clean.”
She looks between us. “Can you do that?”
The room waits us out.
Liz stares at the floor, arms wrapped around herself, her spine sharp with tension. I catch myself cataloging her posture out of habit, the way I assess an opponent’s injuries in the ring. Except she’s not an opponent. She’s someone who needed help long before she asked for it.
Lillian Richardson.
The name echoes hard in my mind.
No one erases themselves without a reason.
No one builds a new life from nothing unless the old one was unbearable.
I glance down at my hands. Split knuckles. Blood drying on my shirt. I put myself in the crosshairs tonight. Professional fighters don’t brawl in bars. The commission could bury me for this.
I rise from the chair and cross the room slowly, giving her time to stop me if she wants. She doesn’t move. All of her is braced for the worst version of me.
I sit beside her and touch her arm carefully. Not demanding. Just an anchor.
“Liz,” I say, low and steady.
She lifts her head, wary. Her eyes are glassy—anger, fear, and exhaustion tangled together.
“It’ll be all right. You’ll be safe here.”
She checks my face for the catch.
Eden steps in, voice gentling. “Leo’s place is closer to Brooklyn Hospital. This is temporary. Once the storm settles, you go back to your own life. By the time med school starts, you’re back on the Upper East Side.”
Liz’s brow tightens.
I exhale slowly and make an offer.
“This mess with Drake could cost me,” I say calmly. “I need your help to keep it contained.”
Her eyes lock on mine. Something settles behind them, a decision forming through fear and instinct.
She checks Eden, then comes back to me. “Fine,” she says at last. “Six weeks.”
Jessica is already typing. “Good. I’ll draft a statement for tomorrow. You two stay here tonight—together.”
“I’ll bring you a bag from the apartment first thing in the morning,” Nate offers.
“Text me a list. I’ll pack it tonight,” Eden adds.
“Now let’s go.” Jessica picks up her purse. “I’ve got a job to do, and you two need to settle in.”
She herds everyone toward the door. Eden gives me a long look—worried, protective, screaming “behave yourself” with her eyes.
Finn claps my shoulder on his way out. “You’re in good hands with Jessica. Don’t worry, she’ll make this go away”
The door shuts behind them, and the apartment changes shape. Quieter. Smaller. Every sound amplified.
She’s by the window again, arms locked tight, that silk dress catching the skyline. An hour ago she was moving against me like a spark catching dry tinder.
Now she won’t meet my eyes.
I step closer slowly.
“Not exactly how I imagined you coming home with me tonight.” I let a faint smile pull at my mouth. It’s the obvious thing we need to say to move forward.
She doesn’t answer immediately. She doesn’t smile at the joke. But the grip on her own ribs eases a fraction.
“I’m sorry for pulling you into my mess,” she says quietly. “It’s been so long since I left him. I started to think... hope... that he’d moved on.”
Who knows what Drake did to make her leave. And here she is, apologizing.
“I’m sorry he did this to you. We’ll handle it. I promise.”
Her shoulders twitch.
“This is your place. Your life. I just walked into it like a wrecking ball.”
“That wasn’t you. That was Drake.”
“I really thought he’d stopped looking for me.” Her voice frays at the edges. “I changed everything. My name. My city. I did everything right.”
“You did.”
She finally turns, leaning her hip against the glass. Up close, I can see the exhaustion threaded through her posture, the way she’s holding herself together by will alone.
“You don’t owe me this,” I say. “But it will help. If he’s smart, he’ll get the memo and move on.”
Her eyes catch mine, searching. Measuring. “And after?”
“After, you go back to your life. Your apartment. Your plans. Nothing about this will stick to you.”
Her face relaxes with relief. “Okay.”
I let the moment settle. “Guest room’s this way. There are fresh towels in the ensuite bathroom, toothbrush, toiletries.”
She follows me down the hall quietly. I open the door and step aside, giving her the first look. The room is spare and calm. White sheets. Soft light. The bridge framed perfectly beyond the glass.
As she steps inside and exhales, I grab a shirt from the hall dresser. “This is… nice. Thank you.”
I hand her one of my T-shirts. “If you need anything,” I tell her, “I’m across the hall. Otherwise, get some sleep.”
She hesitates, then looks back at me. Really looks.
“Leo?”
“Yeah.”
“Thank you. For… not making it worse.”
“Never,” I say, and I mean it. “Goodnight.”
She nods and closes the door gently between us. I stand there a moment longer than necessary. Then I turn and head to my room.
I strip off my shirt, rinse the blood from my knuckles, brace my hands on the sink until the adrenaline drains. My ribs throb. My eyebrow pulls where the cut hasn’t quite sealed.
I should be exhausted.
Instead, I’m alert. Tuned. Listening.
Water starts running down the hall.
The guest room shower.
I lean back against the wall and let the sound anchor me—steady, contained, behind a closed door.
This isn’t how I thought my night would end. Usually it’s clean. Easy. Over by morning.
Tonight there’s no release. Just the aftermath—heat still trapped under my skin, my hands pulsing, my ribs beginning to argue with every breath now that the fight is over.
But knowing she’s here—safe, not alone—settles something deeper than adrenaline.
Six weeks.
I can do six weeks.
Not by getting closer.
By holding the line. By keeping this straightforward. By making sure that when this ends, she leaves with her future intact, and I keep mine.
I don’t take what isn’t offered.
I repeat it once in my head, the way I repeat a combination. Not touching her isn’t a rule Jessica made. It’s mine.
The water keeps running.
My body doesn’t relax.
She’s in my apartment, down the hall.
Six weeks has never felt like a long time until now.