Chapter 7 #2
She lets the question sit there, unanswered, the river noise filling the gap. We turn at the end of the park and loop back. The morning brightens, heat settling in early. Liz wipes sweat from her throat with the back of her hand and keeps going, faster than before.
I fall into stride beside her. Close. Closer than I need to be.
I’m running off the high of chasing her, and now I’m close enough to smell the coconut in her hair mixing with jasmine on her skin, hear the shift of her movement.
It’s wrecking me.
Another burst. Short and controlled.
This one doesn’t surprise me—I’ve learned her tells already—but it still lights me up.
It’s not about pace anymore. It’s about watching her body move and knowing I can’t touch it.
We finish the loop near the river railing. She slows to a walk, hands on her hips, breathing deep and even.
I stop beside her, trying not to look like I’m recalibrating my entire nervous system.
She pulls her earbuds out. “You okay?”
“Liz,” I say, dragging air in, “what the hell was that?”
She wipes sweat from her cheek. “Intervals.”
“Those weren’t intervals. Those were—I don’t even know what those were.”
She tilts her head. “Speed.”
I stare. “No shit.”
Then, finally, she gives it to me. A small, knowing smile. “I used to run track.”
My head snaps toward her as the pieces lock into place. The way she moves. The explosive power. The economy of motion. She’s not just fast—she’s trained to be a weapon.
And I just spent thirty minutes chasing her like prey.
She starts walking again, not realizing she just dropped a grenade at my feet.
“Wait.” I fall into step beside her. “Track as in…?”
“College. Nationals. A while ago.” She shrugs. “It’s nothing.”
Nothing.
Right.
Nothing is why I’m buzzing like I’m about to fight someone.
Nothing is why my lungs haven’t leveled out.
Nothing is why I can’t stop looking at the wings inked on her thigh, shifting with every step.
“Yeah. I figured.”
She glances at me. “When exactly did you figure that out?”
“When you took off like a damn jet,” I say, grinning.
She blinks, thrown for a second. I step a little closer, voice low, still rough from the chase. “You don’t run. You flash.”
Her expression shifts—surprise first, then something warmer. She taps her navel ring with one finger, casual as hell. “Still want to go at my pace?”
I don’t answer. Her grin says she doesn’t need me to.
We head back in comfortable silence, the sticky air pressing around us as the city wakes up. When we reach my building, she hits the door first, holds it for me.
I follow her in.
The elevator ride up is quiet. Eight square feet. Her back three feet away, sweat drying on her spine, hair damp at the ends.
She turns her head slightly. “You good?”
“Fine,” I lie.
When the doors open, she heads straight for her room. “I need to shower. My shift starts at seven.”
“Yeah,” I say.
She closes the door between us.
I stand there longer than I should, then head to my room. Grab my phone.
I can’t stop thinking about what she said.
“I used to run track.”
My fingers move without overthinking: Lillian Richardson track.
The search engine lights up immediately:
Lillian Richardson NCAA 100m
Lillian Richardson 4x100 relay
Lillian Richardson celebration scream
I click the first video.
A stadium. Floodlights. A sea of noise.
And in lane seven—Liz.
Younger. Blue hair cascading down her back in long braids. Those thighs. The tattoo I’ve only caught glimpses of. Compression shorts hugging a body made for explosive power.
Hands on her hips. Head high.
Cocky. Electric. Alive.
She lowers into her start position—a slow, deliberate crouch that looks like prayer and threat at the same time. Every muscle coiled.
The gun fires.
She detonates.
Christ.
She eats up the lane, stride after lethal stride. Hair flying. Tattoo flexing. That face—focused, hungry, absolutely certain she belongs in front.
She crosses the finish line first.
Then she screams.
A raw, triumphant sound that shoots straight down my spine.
She throws her head back and does a sharp hand flick, like she’s slicing the air, claiming it.
I scroll. Another video loads.
Liz with yellow braids. Fire-red curls. Natural black waves.
Liz winning. Again. Again. Again.
Every finish is another scream. That hand flick. That confidence. That glow.
The woman in these videos is a star.
I’m about to close it when YouTube auto-plays another clip.
“NCAA Women’s 100m — Post-Race Interview: Lillian Richardson”
She’s young. No more than twenty. Hair dyed sunrise-orange. Still breathing hard, a sheen of sweat across her collarbones. Her smile is wild—bright and reckless and proud.
The reporter asks her something. She laughs, tips her head back.
God, she’s radiant.
“Lillian, that finish was unbelievable. How did you make that last ten meters?”
She shrugs, still laughing. “Honestly? I just... decide I’m not losing.”
I feel that answer all the way through me.
“You’re one of the most confident sprinters we’ve seen this season. Where does that come from?”
She grins like the answer is obvious.
“My mother. She taught me.”
The reporter laughs. “Richardson is your mother’s name, right?”
She tips her head back, still breathing hard. “Yeah. Dad used to joke she got naming rights because she was faster.”
The interviewer asks what’s next. She beams. “Olympics, hopefully. That’s the dream.”
Olympics.
The clip ends with her laughing, that unfiltered joy lighting up her whole face.
I set the phone down.
The woman in those videos—confident, electric, unstoppable—is the same woman who flinched when Drake grabbed her arm. Who changed her name. Who crossed state lines and started over. Who’s sleeping in my guest room right now, convinced the safest thing is to run.
I lean back against the counter, arms braced.
She thinks sex complicates things. She thinks easy exits keep people safe. She thinks this fake relationship is temporary, controlled, something we both easily step out of.
She’s wrong.
Because she didn’t just pass through my life by accident. She’s been circling my awareness for months—half-glances, near-misses, the kind of presence that registers long before it makes sense. Two nights ago, I almost touched her. Almost finished what her body had already agreed to.
I thought that was the danger.
It wasn’t.
The danger is knowing who she is now.
Not just Liz Adler, with the careful edges and the shut doors. Lillian Richardson, the girl who used to cross the line first and scream her joy into the air.
That woman doesn’t disappear.
She doesn’t get erased.
And she doesn’t get left unprotected.
I set the phone down. Press both palms flat on the counter.
I don’t know what she’s running from yet.
I know I’m going to be the reason she stops.