Chapter 7
TRIGGER (LEO)
Ihit the corner of the hallway—and stop.
Jesus.
Liz is braced against the wall, one leg raised high behind her in a stretch that turns my brain to static.
The compression shorts could be classified as wishful thinking rather than clothing, bright colors hugging her hips.
The black sports bra leaves her stomach bare, navel ring catching the early light.
Her hair falls in a heavy curtain down her back, dark and wild.
Ink I hadn’t seen under her dress the other night curves up her thigh and disappears under the fabric, flashing every time she moves.
Blood rushes south so fast I have to adjust my stance.
She moves through her warm-up with the kind of precision you don’t get from yoga apps. Weight transfers smoothly. Posture razor-sharp. Balance perfect.
Two days.
That’s how long she’s been in my space.
Two days since I dropped her ex in the middle of Schimanski.
Two days since she moved into my guest room while Jessica spins our fake relationship into something believable.
Two days of unfinished tension sleeping twenty feet away.
I tried burning it off in the shower this morning.
Didn’t work.
“Where do you think you’re going?” The words come out rough.
She throws me a look. “Good morning to you too, sunshine.”
“Liz.”
“Leo.” She mirrors my tone, then lifts her knee toward her chest in a stretch that’s going to kill me before camp does.
“You’re not going out by yourself.”
“I am.” She doesn’t even pause. “A run.”
“Drake might be lurking.”
She pushes her hair off her face. The scent of jasmine and coconut drifts toward me. “Relax. Travis isn’t stalking the building at five in the morning.”
Anger cracks through me. Rage is easy. But rage is also sloppy. I don’t do sloppy. Not with her.
“You caught him hard,” she goes on. “He’s probably horizontal somewhere with frozen peas on his face.”
“You crossed state lines to get away from him,” I snap. “Changed your name. It’s not a big stretch to conclude that there’s a story there.” She glances back at me evenly. “And you’re acting like he’s nothing.”
“He is nothing.” She turns fully now, eyes blazing. “A sweaty inconvenience with a bad right hook.”
“He came looking for you.”
“Lucky for me,” she says, with a hint of a smile, “I had the U.S. heavyweight champion pressed up against me, making it very clear I wasn’t available.”
The memory punches through me—her body against mine, soft and warm, ready to be pulled under.
“This isn’t a joke.” Heat rises low in my gut. “I fought him years ago. He’s big, mean, and skips the moral compass entirely.”
Her grin deepens. “Oh, I figured there was history.”
I don’t answer. She looks at the cut above my eye. When she comes back to my eyes, the edge in her voice has dropped a register.
“History or not,” she says softly, “I know what this could’ve cost you. You’re not allowed to fight outside the ring. That could’ve been your title. Your sponsors.” She breathes out slowly. “Your career.”
That hits somewhere it shouldn’t.
“That’s why I said yes to this fake-fiancée circus,” she continues. “So Jessica can spin it and you don’t lose everything because my ex decided to throw a tantrum.”
“Then let’s keep it contained. Agreed?”
She gives me a deadpan stare. “Are you planning to keep me chained up in your lair, big boy?”
“Not funny.”
“Not a joke.” Her expression hardens. “You’re not responsible for me. You stepped in, and I appreciate it. But you don’t get to body-block me every time Travis behaves like a lunatic.”
I step closer. The jasmine hits stronger now, mixing with something citrus and bright.
“You think this is about chivalry?”
“I think,” she says, “you and I were about to fuck.”
Her calling it out strikes me low and devastating. I hate how visible the reaction is.
She notices. Raises an eyebrow.
“You were running on adrenaline and testosterone,” she continues evenly. “And I was three seconds from getting myself a very good time. Then my ex walked in and ruined our plan.”
Want spikes so fast it nearly scrambles my thinking.
“And now?” She lifts her chin. “Now we’re in a different situation.”
I let her finish. This is exactly the kind of situation that ends badly if I allow myself to think too much.
“Sleeping with the man I’m fake dating would be stupid.”
I keep my face neutral and let the rest hurt.
“A good exit matters,” she adds. “And I don’t get one anymore.”
The realization hits hard.
She was planning to bolt.
Simple. Fast. Finished before it ever turned into a problem.
That’s the smart play. That’s always been the smart play.
The spike of irritation that follows has nothing to do with her. That’s what I tell myself, anyway.
I clamp down on it and step back, giving her the space she’s clearly drawing a line around.
“Fine,” I say evenly. “Then I won’t make it harder.”
She continues with her warm-up. Conversation over.
I turn away before my body can argue with my brain, already telling myself what this is.
Temporary.
Contained.
Not personal.
“I can handle myself. If Travis shows up, I have a plan.”
That stops me. “What kind of plan?”
She lifts her arms overhead in a long stretch, ribs lengthening, hair sliding down her back in a curtain. She looks completely unconcerned, half-naked and painted in color, talking about danger like it’s a grocery list item.
“I’ll run,” she says simply. “He can’t catch me.”
I stare at her. “That’s your plan?”
“It’s a good one.” She drops her arms, rolls her shoulders. “I don’t go places alone at night, I watch my exits, and now I’m staying with a professional fighter.”
“Liz—”
She cuts me off with a quick, small smile. “You did more than enough. Let me do my part. I’ll help you clean up the PR mess, you stop putting your career on the line for a woman you barely know.”
The problem is, I don’t need to know her to want her.
“You’re not going out alone. Take it or leave it. If you want to run, we go together. I was about to head out for roadwork anyway.”
She laughs. “I don’t think our tempo will match.”
“We’ll go at your pace. I’m in recovery for a few days anyway.”
One eyebrow lifts. There’s amusement in her eyes. “Suit yourself.”
She pops in her earbuds and opens the door.
I fall into step beside her.
We take Bedford down toward the river, June humidity thick enough to taste. No one’s out yet except a dog walker and a couple delivery guys. The city is half-asleep, still deciding who it wants to be today.
Liz jogs a few steps ahead of me, earbuds in, hair bouncing heavy down her back. The ink on her thigh—fast, broken wing lines—flashes with every stride.
“You’re not going to tie your hair up?” I call after her.
She just laughs. “I’m good.”
I don’t get it, but I let it go.
She doesn’t stretch again once we hit the park entrance. Just shakes out her legs, touches her toes once. Warm, loose, ready.
I force myself to push away where my mind goes and follow.
We hit the paved path by the water, the skyline hazy across the river. Domino Park is quiet, just the steady sound of our feet on pavement.
“Start slow,” I say. “Ease into it. I’ll match you.”
She glances over, amused. “Sure, Carver. Thanks for the tip.”
We fall into an easy jog. I stay half a step behind because apparently I like making problems for myself at five in the morning.
Her stride is smooth. Too smooth. Hips stable, foot strike clean, arms close to her ribs. No wasted motion. Every muscle fires in sequence.
We go two blocks like that. Warm-up territory. Then, without a warning or a glance, the air shifts.
One second she’s beside me. Next, she’s a blur of legs and hair slicing up the path.
When she bursts forward, the wing on her thigh stretches, spreads, suddenly looking exactly like what it is.
Wings in flight.
“What the—” I mutter, then push off hard.
She’s twenty feet ahead before my feet even catch the angle. I lengthen my stride, feel the burn rip through my hamstrings as I go after her.
She doesn’t look back.
Not once.
She’s full force, full speed, eating the pavement. Her hair streams behind her like a banner, pulled straight by the wind.
Every instinct I have—fighter, male, animal—fires at once.
Chase. Catch. Claim.
The word “mine” lands in my chest before I can stop it.
I run harder.
This isn’t leftover fight adrenaline; it’s clean, directional, and it locks onto her.
I don’t think about pace. I don’t think about the route. I don’t think about what I’ll do when I reach her.
That part hasn’t even formed yet.
All I know is movement. Her body ahead of me. Mine answering. The need to close the gap lives in my legs and teeth—raw and uncomplicated. No plan, no logic, no finish line. Just chase.
She runs. I follow. Everything else comes after.
I dig deeper, ribs protesting from the fight two nights ago. She holds the burst for a full block before easing into a jog like she didn’t just set my whole morning on fire.
I reel her in beside me and lose whatever script I thought I had.
She doesn’t acknowledge me. Not with her eyes. Not with a smile.
“Thought you were going to stay at my pace.”
“I am,” I manage.
She smirks, just barely. “Right.”
We run side by side for a few minutes, faster now. She keeps an even rhythm. My lungs fall in with hers.
Everything in me screams “mine” again. My brain doesn’t even bother arguing this time.
And the worst part?
Thirty minutes ago she looked me in the face and told me we weren’t doing what we were about to do two nights ago.
No follow-through.
No sex.
No release.
Just a fake relationship and a polite boundary.
Then she does it again.
This sprint is shorter, maybe a hundred meters, but it’s sharper. I push harder this time. My ribs remind me I just fought two nights ago. It’s not enough. She gets ahead—less distance, but enough to land the hit.
Frustration hits fast and mean. I catch her again.
I slow because I have to, not because my body wants to.
“Warming up?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Old habit.”
“What habit?”