“At this ungodly hour of the morning?”
“It’s the best time. No one is around to interrupt,” I say with a quick glance at him powering through my torturous morning ritual.
“Present company excluded,” he huffs.
“Present company wasn't invited.” I waggle a finger at him.
He laughs. It comes out a little ragged. “Noted.”
I push harder. Part of me wants to see him quit. To prove that he's like everyone else… all talk until things get difficult. The other part of me, the part I don't want to examine too closely because of what it might mean, wants to see if he'll surprise me.
I’m silently hoping for the latter.
My lungs are burning, but it's the good kind of burn, the kind that incinerates everything else. The wedding. The contract. My father in that hospital bed. The fact that I'm now legally bound to the man gasping for air beside me.
We get to the bridge, but I don't slow down. The Charles River stretches out below us, smooth ripples, black and glittering in the moonlight. My legs scream. I don't listen.
“Fuuuuck,” Lochlan mutters.
I glance over, biting back a snicker. He's still there, still matching me stride for stride, but he’s clearly wearing down. Sweat dripping down the sides of his face, and he might be about two minutes from collapse.
My teeth grit. He also looks unfairly good. Even suffering, even gasping, even clearly regretting every life choice that led him to this moment… he looks like a freaking model out of a magazine. The kind of man who'd make you do a double take on the street.
I tear my gaze away to focus on the road.
He doesn't stop. Doesn't ask me to slow down. Doesn't complain.
He just keeps going. Stubborn. And so hot.
Something shifts in my chest. I hate it.
“You don't run much, do you?” I ask.
“What… what gave it away?” he huffs, definitely struggling now. “The wheezing or the death stare?”
“The form. You're a sprinter, used to short bursts of speed, right? You've got the legs for distance, but not the lungs.”
“Thanks… for the analysis.”
“Told you, it’s what I do.” I give him a half-smile. “You could tap out. I wouldn't judge.”
“Yes, you would,” he pants.
He's right. I would.
I slow down. Just a little. Just enough that he can catch a real breath without it being obvious that I'm doing him a favor.
His jaw tightens. Of course it does. He knows exactly what I did.
“I don't need?—"
“Shut up and run, Molloy.”
We loop back toward Back Bay at this slower pace. It’s still brisk but sustainable. My heart rate settles. The chaos in my head starts to quiet. Finally.
This is why I run. Not for fitness. Not for health. For this… the moment when the world shrinks down to nothing but breath and movement and the steady beat of my own pulse. The moment when I can finally think with a clear mind.
Except now I'm not alone in my head. He's there, too.
