Chapter 24
CLEAN HIT (LEO)
The weight of her body against mine is perfect. Warm curves molded to my chest, her skin still flushed from last night. She’s half draped over me, one leg hitched over my thigh, breath slow and even. My hand rests between her shoulder blades, fingers splayed. I’m holding still.
Usually she’s up before five, lacing her shoes, getting her sprints in before the ER madness swallows her.
But this morning, she didn’t run.
When we finally got back to Brooklyn last night, spent from the day in her bed, the streets were damp from an earlier summer storm.
I took her by the hand, led her straight into my room, and kept my voice even because if I sounded like I needed it, she’d bolt.
“Stay,” I said.
She blinked, and for one suspended breath, I thought she wouldn’t. Then she let it pass and let herself be pulled under all over again.
And again.
Now the room is dim, curtains half drawn, the city outside still deciding whether it wants to be morning. The A/C hums low. My phone is face down on the dresser. No outside world yet.
Only Liz.
Her hair is loose, dark waves spilling across my pillow. In sleep she looks softer. Less guarded. The tension she carries through her shoulders during daylight has slipped.
Last night broke something open.
It wasn’t reckless. It was inevitable.
In the stairwell, I expected the pivot at the last second—fear wrapped in reason. Instead, she let me catch her. Now she’s in my bed.
I shift carefully, sliding my legs out. I stand without looking at her too long. If I stare, I’ll crawl back in and take more than she’s ready to give.
I don’t take what isn’t offered.
Not from her. Not ever.
In the kitchen, I scan the cupboards. Fruit. Oat milk. Blue Mountain coffee. Leftover rice and chicken from a meal I prepped because camp is coming and my diet doesn’t care what my heart is doing.
I brew a pot and prep a smoothie, but I don’t turn on the blender yet.
I’m halfway through pouring a cup when a soft sound comes from the bedroom. “Leo?” Her voice is thick with sleep. “Come back to bed.”
It’s as close to tenderness as she lets herself get without naming it, and it hits like a hook under the ribs.
I carry the coffee in and find her propped on one elbow, hair wild, eyes half open. She’s wearing my shirt from last night, the hem skimming her thigh. The tattoo at the curve of her leg peeks out, wings built from motion.
“Morning,” I say.
She makes a small sound and reaches for the water on the nightstand. She drinks, then looks at me over the rim.
I hand her the mug. “You’re being helpful,” she says, like it’s a complaint. Then, softer, “As always.”
I sit on the edge of the bed. My hand settles on the sheet near her knee.
“Should I stop?”
“No.” She studies me, eyes clearer now. Still sleepy, but here.
I could ruin it by saying too much, so I keep my voice even. “What time do you start today?”
“Seven.” Her brow furrows. “Why?”
“So we have time.”
Her eyes narrow. “For what?”
I don’t answer. I let my hand slide along her thigh. “Are you sore?”
“A little.”
“Good. I wanted you to be.”
She lifts her head, eyes dark and heavy-lidded. There’s that smirk, the one that says she’s already three steps ahead.
“And?” she teases.
I lean in. “And I’m not done with you.”
Her hand slides up my chest. “Oh really?”
“Really.”
She hooks her fingers in my waistband and tugs. She strokes me slow, and the tension snaps through my hips before I can stop it. “Then stop talking and power up, Brooklyn.”
I almost laugh. Even now, she’s got an edge. I kiss her, slow and deep, and she makes a satisfied sound that goes straight through me. Her other hand fists in my shirt, impatient.
“Off,” she says against my mouth.
I pull it over my head. She runs her palms up my chest, testing, learning.
“You’re beautiful, Leo.”
The words land the same way they did on the beach. Sharp. Private.
“Say it again.”
Her laugh is soft. “You’re beautiful.”
I tug my shirt up and off her, tossing it aside. My hands flatten on her ribs, then slide lower.
She sits up and stops me with both hands on my chest.
She studies me like she’s taking inventory. The scar at my brow. The bruised knuckles. The rise and fall of my breath. I let her look.
“This is new for me,” I admit. “Wanting someone like this and not being able to make it simple.”
Her expression softens. “Show me. Slow. Don’t let me disappear.”
I ease her onto her back and settle between her thighs. When I cup her breast, thumb circling the sensitive peak, her breath stutters and her back arches.
She reaches for me confidently. “Again.”
I cup her face. “Yeah?”
“Please.”
Her skin glows warm in the morning light. I strip off my boxers, reach for the condom on the nightstand, and roll it on with a steadier hand than I feel.
I hold her gaze as I line us up, slow enough to make her feel every second of it. When I finally push into her, her body contracts around me and she makes a sound that wrecks me.
Her nails bite into my shoulders, trying to get closer, her walls fluttering around me.
“Holy fuck.” I don’t recognize my voice as she moves beneath me, circling, tipping her hips, chasing more.
“Leo—”
“Take what you need,” I rasp against her mouth.
She rocks her hips, chasing more. Every inch I give her, she answers. The sounds she makes ruin me. The way she clings to me says she’s not anywhere.
It’s too intimate. Too close.
Still not enough.
I gather her up and set a slower rhythm. My mouth finds her jaw, then her neck. I bite gently, then soothe it with my tongue.
“I want to fuck you everywhere, Liz,” I say against her skin. “I want you not running.”
She makes a broken sound that might be a laugh and a confession at the same time. Her arms lock around me fiercely.
“Yes,” she breathes. “Leo, yes.”
The heat coils tight, relentless. I can feel her slipping, the way her body clamps around me.
My thrusts quicken, my hips turning erratic, and I bury my face in her throat, holding her to me as I come apart.
“Liz—”
I stay buried until the tremors pass through both of us.
When I finally pull back, I discard the condom and gather her onto my chest. She melts into me, boneless.
My hand slides up and down her spine, slow and possessive. “Breathe, Flash,” I murmur.
She smiles against my skin. “This is better than a sprint first thing in the morning.”
I kiss her temple. “Told you I’d take care of you.”
She pinches my side. I don’t even flinch.
My phone buzzes on the dresser.
I ignore it.
It buzzes again, insistent.
Liz glances toward the sound, then back to me. She doesn’t ask.
I reach over and flip the phone.
A camp email sits at the top of my inbox, subject line in bold.
TRAINING CAMP — CONFIRMED SCHEDULE
I don’t like how fast that changes the shape of things.
Under that is another message from Elliot, timestamped earlier than it should be.
Sponsor shoot moved. Need confirmation.
I don’t answer either one, just look at the screen.
Four weeks.
That’s all.
Four weeks until two-a-days, sparring blocks, media windows, food measured down to the gram, sleep like a religion, and everybody around me acting like the belt is the only thing in the room that matters.
Liz watches me with that ER precision that finds the fracture before you even admit it hurts. “What is it?”
“Camp starts in four weeks. Fight date’s locked.”
“Good.”
“Good?” The word comes out rougher than I mean.
She drags her nails down my chest, teasing. “About the same time I’m done at the ER. So I won’t need a chauffeur anymore.”
The words land wrong.
She says it lightly. Like four weeks is a neat little bridge between now and whatever comes after.
In my head, I see early mornings, sparring days that leave bruises under the skin, PT sessions with Eden that keep my body whole. A schedule that eats everything else if you let it.
“I’ll still drive you,” I say.
Her mouth curves. “Control freak.”
“Problem?”
“No.” She stretches against me like a cat. “I like it.”
I stand and hold out my hand. “Come on. You need food if you’re working.”
She looks at my hand long enough to make it a choice. Then takes it.
“You’re showing me how to make the smoothie. I’ll need those mad skills once you disappear into camp.”
My grip tightens around her fingers before I make it loosen.
“Yeah,” I say, because anything else would sound like too much.
She doesn’t catch it. Or pretends not to.
She slides out of bed and heads for the bathroom, hair loose down her back.
I stay where I am.
Then I reach for the phone again.
The screen is still lit with camp dates and sponsor demands, as if the future has been standing outside the room this whole time waiting for me to open the door. Four weeks.
The sheets still smell of her. I set the phone facedown and press my hand flat on the mattress. This is the part nobody warns you about. Not just wanting someone.
Wanting them on a deadline.